


Kneel Down by Your Side and Pray

by nastally, Plainxte, quirkysubject, Tikini



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: (very brief) Suicidal Thoughts, Blackmail, Blood and Violence, Capital Punishment, Childhood Trauma, Corporal Punishment, Dystopia, Emotional Manipulation, Friendship, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Sexual Slavery, Pining, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Sexual Assault, Slavery AU, Violence, Whipping, a lot of shades of fucked up, anyway shipping will happen, but it will probably get dark, collab fic, not the fun kind, we have no idea where this is going, with two froger queens in on this it's quite likely we're going in that direction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:33:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 47,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23451001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plainxte/pseuds/Plainxte, https://archiveofourown.org/users/quirkysubject/pseuds/quirkysubject, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tikini/pseuds/Tikini
Summary: Always avert your eyes. Never contradict the masters, and never admit to anything.In a world where slavery is a grim reality, four young men fight for their humanity.
Relationships: Brian May/Roger Taylor
Comments: 251
Kudos: 127





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185412286@N08/49734889746/in/dateposted-public/)
> 
> Good evening, lovelies! Tikini here.
> 
> So once upon a time Quirkysubject had this idea about a Queen slavery AU which she shared with me (since I'm a known slut for AUs). Then later, somehow, we also roped Nastally and Plainxte into the idea and oops, a new collab was born. 
> 
> We'll write a chapter of this each. The only things we know is that this story takes place in a fantasy world, that the four boys will feature in some way, that there will be shipping and that it's a story about slavery. 
> 
> I'm only offering a prologue today, and really hope you guys enjoy it! I'm quite excited (and a tiny bit terrifed) myself.
> 
> Also, this fic will probably contain some quite heavy topics. We will update tags accordingly, so don't forget to take a look at those.
> 
> Title taken from Queen's song Liar.

Licking the sweet lemonade off his lips, Freddie leant back in his chair and eagerly eyed the desserts piled all over the huge table. There were chocolate eggs painted in vibrant, fun colours, small cupcakes covered in thick glaze and candied fruits and a huge, three tiered cake, sitting in the middle of it all.

While the young boy couldn’t wait to get started on the sweet treats, the grownups at the table, his parents and their guests, were still sipping on their after-dinner drinks and discussing boring adult business stuff that went over Freddie’s head.

He wished there would be other children at the dinner party, someone he could talk to, maybe play with. But his sister was too young to stay up this late, and none of their guests had brought their own kids.

It was an honour to be allowed at the table at all. Tonight was the first time Freddie had been invited to sit with the adults instead of dining on his lonesome in the kitchen. It was an opportunity, his father had said, for Freddie to listen and learn.

And through the appetizer and half of the main course, he had been listening. He’d even done his best to act interested and alert, nervously waiting for someone to ask about his thoughts or opinions. 

No one did.

Except for a joke here and there, or a gente ruffle of his hair, Freddie went ignored.

Now he didn’t have the energy to listen anymore. It was all boring anyway, numbers and routes and analyses.

“Mum.” He whispered, grabbing at her sleeve and tugging carefully. “Can I have a chocolate egg?”

His mother glanced at him, her dark eyes warm and kind. She waved to old Clara, who was waiting in the corner of the dining hall, and the woman immediately came over. 

Freddie bid the grownups good night and gave his mother a kiss on the cheek before following the slave into the kitchen. There were both chocolate eggs and glazed cupcakes on the kitchen counter and Freddie grinned widely, running up to the tray and snatching an egg.

He bit into the creamy chocolate, and closed his eyes, letting the delicious taste transport him into another world.

“Just one before bed, young Master, or you won’t be able to sleep.”

“Yesh yesh,” he garbled around his mouthful and Clara chuckled and shook her head.

“Clara,” his mother called from outside, and the slave bowed her grey head to Freddie, before returning to the dining hall.

Freddie quickly devoured the tasty egg, looking around the large kitchen. The area was clean, spotless, even, the only signs of a dinner party being held at all being pans and dishes drying on wooden shelves, and the trays of sweets lining the counter.

Next to the hearth, the door to the cellar was left slightly ajar. Freddie swallowed the last of the chocolate, glancing around to make sure he was still alone, before grabbing a second egg and going up to the door. 

He was rarely allowed down to the cellar, and the thought of taking a look on his own, this late at night, filled him with excitement.

Throwing a last glance over his shoulder, he opened the door further, and slipped inside. 

The spiral staircase leading down to the cellar of the mansion was lit up by oil lanterns, hanging from the walls. Freddie’s hand felt clammy with sweat where he held onto the railing as he climbed down the steep stairs, his other fist clenched so tightly around the chocolate egg it was starting to melt.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs he hesitated for a moment. He should be up in his warm room, making Clara or one of the other slaves read him a bedtime story. Down here it was cold and scary.

He nervously took a bite from the now gooey egg and looked first to the left, then to the right. To the left were the indoor well, the pantry and the mansion slaves’ quarters. He’d been there a few times. To the right, however, he’d never been.

Taking another bite from his treat, his resolve growing, Freddie started down the corridor, to the right. The sound of his shoes against the rough stone echoed between the tall walls and his shadow looked tall, twisted and absurd in the flickering light from the lanterns.

He had no reason to be afraid. He was the master of the house, or well, he would be one day. He was no coward. Freddie kept telling himself this, trying his best to ignore the shivers trailing down his spine.

Soon the corridor opened up, the sturdy stone walls exchanged for iron bars. Freddie stopped, his heart beating hard in his chest. He’d found the storage. 

He hadn’t known they kept them down here. 

Curious, he started walking again, gazing into the cells, at the thin, bare bodies. Most of them seemed to be sleeping, curled up on their blankets, backs against Freddie.

He knew that this group was going to be dispatched early next morning, to one of their dinner guests’ estate in the countryside.

When he’d passed at least ten cells on either side he came to a stop, eyes widening as he took in the slave in the closest cell. 

The child inside looked tiny. Their head was shaved and they were only wearing a pair of too large breeches. They had to be very young, younger than Freddie, even. And they were not sleeping, but propped up against the wall, looking back at Freddie. Or, he assumed they were looking at him. The slave’s face was bruised, their eyes so swollen only a glimpse of colour was visible between the lids. 

Freddie stepped closer to the bars, looking at the other child. He hadn’t seen many slave children before, and he was intrigued.

“Hello.” He said, his voice quiet and shaky.

The slave didn’t answer.

“Hello!” He tried again, louder.

But the other person just kept looking at him, their face blank.

“Can you talk?” Freddie asked, starting to get annoyed. “If you can, I command you to answer me.”

The slave smiled, their teeth sharp white against dirty skin. “You can’t command me to do anything. You’re a kid, just like me.”

Freddie gaped at the boy, for he was quite certain the slave was a boy. How rude! He was about to say so, but paused, taking in the bruised, dirty skin, the painfully thin arms and torso. There was a wooden cup on the packed dirt floor, next to the slave, together with a charred piece of bread. He remembered the half melted chocolate egg in his hand and held it up.

“Do you want this?” He asked and saw how the slave stiffened, his swollen eyes widening a fraction with what looked like longing. “Aren’t you hungry?” The slave swallowed.

Freddie smiled, feeling pleased with himself. “I had one before and half of this, so I’m full. You can have the rest.”

The eager expression fell from the slave’s face and his mouth turned into a snarl. “Piss off. I don’t want your leftovers.”

“Hey!” Freddie took a step back. “You can’t talk to me like that, slave! I am the master of the house and you have to show me respect and do as I say!”

The boy clenched his fists. “You’re not the master of anything, you’re just a loud-mouthed, buck-toothed bastard who has no idea how lucky he is.”

“H...how dare you!” Freddie gasped, his free hand coming up to cover his mouth self consciously. “You stinking, you rott...” The charred piece of bread came flying through the air, sailed between the bars and hit Freddie straight in the face.

Freddie dropped the chocolate egg in surprise, his dirty hand coming up to protect his face as he let out a yelp.

“You’ll be sorry,” he started, voice shaking with anger. He stopped short as he looked up and found the other boy suddenly up and right in front of him, his tiny fists clenched around the thick bars.

“What are you going to do about it?” The boy growled, and this close Freddie could see a glimpse of clear blue in those furious eyes. “Are you going to beat me? Well, go ahead!”

“Be quiet, boy.” Another of the slaves hissed and Freddie spun around to see pale, worried faces watching them from all sides.

Without a word, Freddie turned on his heel and ran. He could hear the boy shouting after him.

“Yeah, that’s right, master of the house! Run tattle on me to your ma!”

Angry tears ran down Freddie’s cheeks as he bolted for the stairs. He wiped them off, leaving chocolate streaks all over his face, as he ran for the safety of the upper floors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know your thoughts!
> 
> Over to one of my collab partners!


	2. The Stubborn Slave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so ladies and gentlemen, we've roped Plainxte into this as well now! XD Whatever _this_ is. Because quite honestly, we have no idea.
> 
> It's a proper Round Robin, none of us really know at all what the next person will bring to it. This might turn into a real mess, please lower your expectations, we are sorry if it's shite but it's just a bit of fun! 😂🙏🏻
> 
> I was super inspired after reading my dear soulmate Tikini's prologue so I'm following hot on her heels with a chapter... that no one, including me, thought I would write. 
> 
> Er, enjoy??

\- - - 

"Psst." 

The muscles in his shoulders were screaming, although his arms had mostly gone numb. Squinting up into the light which fell through the branches of the flogging tree, as it was universally referred to by his kind and their masters alike, albeit the way they spoke about it differed greatly, he could make out his bound hands, through the black and white spots dancing in front of his eyes. His skin was turning shades of purple and dark red above the rope which had been pulled around his wrists too tightly. Much as it was agony, the rope cutting into his wrists harshly as they left him out here to hang like a drying piece of meat filled him with a great, bitter satisfaction that they were _afraid_. Afraid he might escape. Again. Afraid that they couldn't predict him, could never hope to truly control him, no matter how hard they tried.

"Psst!"

He knew what they were trying to achieve, too, leaving him here for as long as they had. In the scorching heat, exhausting him with thirst and the sheer torture of his current position, feet barely touching the ground, utterly incapable of finding even a moment's reprieve from the pain in his shoulders. This wasn't his first time, after all. But this time, they were really drawing it out. Hoping to break him, to have him begging and screaming for mercy when the time for his punishment finally came. But they wouldn't succeed. He wasn't going to give them that. He wasn't going to give them so much as a fucking whimper. 

Dizzy from the heat and parched, blinking against the sweat which stung in his eyes, he leaned his head back and groaned, trying not to focus on any of it. Willing his mind to give him something to hold on to. Anything. It was the soft, soothing sound of Brian's voice which came to him then, one of the melodies he would sing, when they were alone or at least safely out of the Masters' earshot. He focused on remembering the words which so frequently pierced his heart with their poignant melancholy, remembering the timbre of the other young man's voice and the touch of his calloused fingers. 

"Psst, _Roger_!" 

And at last, then, he heard him through the rushing of blood in his ears. The very voice he had been trying to summon in his mind, only it was real, barely a whisper. Roger drew a breath, his dry tongue painfully catching on the roof of his mouth which felt like sandpaper. Blinking his eyes open, he glanced around, half desperate and half infuriated. How dare he? How dare Brian risk it? Stupid, stubborn idiot that he was. 

"Over here," the other man's voice came from the shadows. Roger turned his head in the direction it was coming from and narrowed his eyes at the large pillar beside the house wall, his vision swimming. 

"Bri," he croaked, reproachfully, and saw him, edging minutely out of the shadows. His unruly short-cropped hair instantly recognisable. Roger smiled and felt his dry lips crack. 

The other man looked around pointedly, craning his neck, before his eyes returned to Roger, who realised he had the better view of the yard. It was still empty, at the moment. Everyone had gone inside to escape the oppressive midday heat. 

"Clear," Roger tried to say, only his voice barely obeyed him. 

Brian understood anyway and quickly crossed the distance, coming up right in front of him, his face lined with worry and tired eyes alight with determination. 

"Rog," he whispered, even as he lifted the flask out of his sleeve and Roger's eyes snapped to it, a moan of relief escaping his lips. 

Brian quickly uncorked the flask and placed a hand on his jaw, supporting him as he carefully poured some of the water into Roger's mouth. Drinking felt so good Roger wanted to cry as he gulped the cool water down greedily, draining the small flask to the last drop. 

"Thanks," he breathed, licking his lips, and then: "Now go, _go_ , the fuck you waiting for!" 

The last thing they needed, the last thing Roger wanted, was for both of them to be whipped because of him. He wouldn't allow Brian to be dragged into this if he could at all help it, but that bloody gangly muppet was still standing in front of him, worriedly looking him up and down. 

"Bri, I swear to God, if you don't go-" started Roger, but the next moment Brian had wrapped his arms firmly around him, just above the waistband of his breeches, and lifted him up a little, taking the weight off his arms and shoulders. 

With an involuntary whimper, Roger squeezed his eyes shut and panted. It was a relief and it hurt worse still at the same time, some feeling returning into his stiff muscles as they were given a moment's respite. Brian's arms trembled but he held on tightly. 

"You'll be alright," he huffed out through gritted teeth. Roger could feel his breath on his face. "It'll be over soon." And then: "Promise me you won't do something so stupid ever again." 

"I-" Roger snorted, cracking his eyes open, his expression somewhere between a smirk and a pained grimace. "I promise nothing." 

Brian's eyes were half pleading, half furious. Perhaps both. However, when he spoke, his voice trembled with emotion. "You'll get yourself killed." 

"I'd like to- ah!"

Brian's grip around his waist was slipping. 

"Like to see them try," Roger's voice trailed off into a groan. "Just let go, let go." 

"I'm sorry," Brian winced, trying to release him as carefully and slowly as he could. 

"Go," Roger hissed, clenching his jaw, and glared insistently at the other man. 

For a long moment, Brian stared at him with helpless desperation, before he cast a quick glance both ways and lifted a hand to Roger's cheek, leaning their foreheads against each other just briefly. With a shuddering sigh, he pulled away. 

"Run, you fucker," whispered Roger, and watched Brian disappear back into the shadows minutes before two silhouettes came into sight, walking toward him across the grass. 

The Master and his son, Roger thought, recognising them by their gait long before they came into focus. His very soul filled with a deep, burning hatred at the sight of them, even as he steeled himself for what was to come. 

Not a word. 

Not a whimper. 

Still, as they came closer, his eyes were drawn to the whip the old man was carrying and he could feel his stomach drop from the sheer memory of the pain it inflicted, familiar as he was with it. Roger forced himself to tear his eyes away from it and found himself staring at the younger of the two men instead. The dark-haired young man immediately averted his eyes as he saw Roger lift his head, and glanced nervously at his father, pulling his lips over those hideous teeth of his. He looked as if he wanted to be here about as much as Roger did. 'Too much for you to stomach? Did Papa dearest make you come along?' Roger thought disdainfully, and narrowed his eyes at him. 

Spoiled brat. 

No doubt he'd rather be sitting on the veranda, in the shade, with his sketchbook on his lap. Sipping iced tea and chewing on the end of his pencil, not a care in the world. Looking right through them as though they didn't exist at all, or else staring at them as if they were some sort of enigmatic curiosity, the way he did sometimes. It gave Roger the creeps. 

Especially when the Master's son went so far as to _benevolently_ leave out a remainder of his afternoon tea for whoever cleared his dish away, as if his biscuit crumbs were a gift from the heavens. He was a strange one, that Frederick. One time, a couple of years ago, Roger had been working in the vegetable garden and for a good hour, he had felt the other boy watching him, so intently it raised the hair on the back of his neck. He'd been _drawing_ him, Roger had found out, because Frederick had _showed_ him with a jovial 'A good likeness, don't you think, dear?' and his toothy, smug grin. Roger had very nearly ripped the paper out of his hands and torn it to shreds. To be reminded in that way that nothing, not even his image, was truly his own.

God, Roger despised him. 

But he despised the old man far more who, meanwhile, was all business as he walked up to him, raising the butt of the whip and lifting Roger's chin up with it. 

"Still with us, I see." Arching an eyebrow, the Master looked him in the eye, surveying him, while Roger stared back mutely, his jaw set. He could feel the boy's eyes on him again and glanced over. Young Master Frederick was looking at him with an expression Roger couldn't read, nor did he much try to. 

"How many lashes for your transgression, boy?" the old man demanded to know, narrowing his eyes at him. 

Roger met his gaze again and said nothing. Of course he knew the answer. And he knew very well that the Master knew it, too.

"I asked you a question! Speak, or I'll double the number," the Master told him sternly, pressing the end of the whip firmly against Roger's throat. 

Seconds passed. Roger lowered his eyes, gazing down his nose at the whip and the hand which held it, stubbornly determined. 'You'll be alright,' Brian's voice echoed in his head. He would be. It was only his body. Only pain. Twenty... forty... He'd never had more than thirty before, but what was another ten? He'd live. 

"It was twenty."

Both Master and slave turned to look at the dark-haired young man, who blinked against the bright sun, eyes half-hidden behind thick, dark lashes. 

"Was it _you_ I asked?" his father snapped, abruptly lowering the whip as he turned to him. 

"No, father."

The Master exhaled sharply through his nose and wiped his brow with the back of his hand, sweat already beading there from the sweltering heat. 

"Come on, let's get to it," the old man told his son, casting an almost disinterested look at Roger, their battle of wills momentarily forgotten, as he lay a hand around his boy's shoulders and lead him away and around the back of the slave. "Watch and learn." 

"Yes, father," the boy muttered obediently. 

Oh, so that was why the brat was here, thought Roger. Master Frederick had just turned twenty-one, hadn't he. High time to be given more responsibilities around the estate. 

Such as meting out punishments. 

"There's no need to exert yourself too much," the old man was saying, as though he was chatting about a sport, "If you do it right, the whip does the work for you." 

Roger closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, aware of the sound of the whip cutting through the air a split second before it left a burning line across his exposed back.

"You see what I mean?" 

Another swish, another shock of pain. And another, the lingering agony so overwhelming he could barely breathe. Roger dug his nails into his palms, the way his body arched and convulsed beyond his control, the hot tears welling up in his eyes inevitable. But he would be damned if he made a sound. Pressing his lips together tightly, drawing short, harsh breaths through his nose, Roger imagined tearing his hands free. Imagined grabbing the thin end of the whip and winding them around the old bastard's neck, throttling him until his eyes bulged out of his head. Imagined driving his fist into his ugly visage over and over again until there was nothing left but bloody pulp.

After eight lashes, he was given a moment's respite. 

"Your turn," said the Master. "Go on." 

Roger gasped down a few breaths and gritted his teeth again, bracing himself. 

But nothing happened. 

"I..." 

"Listen to me, Freddie." The old man hissed, sounding exasperated. "You have to make them respect you. This is the only language they understand, do you hear me? Especially this stubborn lout." 

"...Yes."

"Now show him who his Master is. Come on, what are you waiting for!" 

A deep intake of breath behind him, almost a sigh, and Roger felt the lick of the whip again, albeit with much less force behind it. Still it stung badly across his sore back, making him try and twist away from the pain. 

"Harder." barked the Master. 

There was barely a difference when Frederick struck him again, which seemed to infuriate his father. 

"Oh, for goodness sake! Can't you do anything right!"

"I'm sorry-" 

"You're an embarrassment. How do you expect to command respect in this house? Give me that!" 

The next lash broke Roger's skin together with his silence, the agonised yelp leaving his lips before he could choke it down. Fuck. _Fuck_. 

"There, see? Now that's how you-" 

A very loud, sudden crash coming from the front of the house cut off the old, smug bastard mid-sentence. Instinctively, Roger turned his head in the direction of the noise even though he couldn't hope to see what was going on at the other side of the house. There was an instant sense of panic in the air. Screams sounded, angry and terrified, the sound of horses stomping the ground and neighing. 'It's the front gate,' Roger thought, 'Someone's broken down the front gate.'

"...the cellar! And stay there!" 

Roger became aware that the old man was shouting behind him, and then he rushed past him with Frederick close behind. There were people running across the lawn in the distance now. Women being chased by a man on horseback. 

"Father!" 

"TO THE CELLAR!" his father shouted over his shoulder. Frederick stopped in his tracks, watching the Master of the estate rush off, then whipped around, a wild, fearful expression on his face as his eyes happened upon Roger. 

They stared at each other for a moment. Frederick blinked and opened his mouth to speak, but it was all he had time to do. Roger saw Brian out of the corner of his eye a split second before he ran up from the side and whacked their Master's son over the head with a ceramic pot which shattered into several pieces. 

"Oh God," he gasped, as though momentarily shocked at his own actions, as they both watched Frederick collapse into a heap on the grass. 

"Brian-" 

The tall man was already beside him, holding a kitchen knife, and frantically reached for the ropes binding Roger's hands. 

"What happened? What's happening?!" Roger all but yelled into his face while Brian tried to cut through the rope. 

"The gate, they've broken down the gate," Brian told him breathlessly, sawing away at the rope. "They're everywhere!" 

"Who? _Who?!_ " 

When the rope finally gave way, Brian met his eyes, his face sweaty, grimy and panicked. "Old man Deacon and his men," he breathed, "they're taking back the estate by force." 

"Oh shi-aah!" Roger whined at the pain as his arms came free and he lowered them, Brian supporting him carefully. Everything was agony. "What do we do?" he moaned, unsteady on his feet. 

"I don't know!" Brian exclaimed frantically, looking around. "Run!?" 

Almost simultaneously, they set their sights on the far wall, which was the easiest to climb. It was their best bet. Their only chance. 

"Come on," breathed Brian, taking his hand. 

Roger hesitated, turning to the young man who was lying in the grass half conscious, moaning and cradling his head. 

"Wait-" 

In two quick strides, Roger was beside him and delivered a swift, hard kick to his stomach. It was a small drop of just retribution in an ocean of resentment and rage, but it was better than nothing. 

"Quick!" called Brian. 

And together, they ran, hearts pounding wildly in their chests. But unfortunately, they were not fast enough.

\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much for Froger. 😂 I'm sorry, don't kill me! Over to Quirky and Plainxte! 💕


	3. Caught

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been updated, please have a look first!
> 
> Thanks to [toinette93](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toinette93/pseuds/Toinette93) for her ultrafast beta and helping Brian stay in character! And thanks to my lovely co-writers for their support and encouragement, for the world they set up and for letting me play in it 💕

It was quiet now.

In the first grey light of dawn, the neighing of the horses, the screams of the women, the shouted commands, they had all died down.

Freddie shivered in the cold sweat that had soaked his clothes. He drew his shirt tighter around him as he curled himself up in that tiny hollow at the roots of an old oak tree. He dared not move, for fear of making noise, for fear of all the creepy-crawlies he might stir up in the dark.

He couldn’t remember how he got there, into that copse of trees bordering onto the courtyard. The last time he had been in there, he had been only ten, dared by his sister. The hollow had seemed big at the time, now he could barely fit all his limbs in.

The hammering his head grew and expanded until everything else was drowned out, dulling all sensations until the only thing left was a sickly base note of dread.

A far off drum roll brought him to his senses.

The sunlight breaking through the gaps between the thick roots told him he must have slept for a few hours at least. He reached up to soothe that pain radiating out from his skull and his fingers touched something sticky. He stared uncomprehendingly at his hand.

Blood. Dried blood. But he had got away, hadn’t he? Away from the soldiers, the horses. Panic rose low in his chest, stealing his breath. His father. _Kash._ Where were they? Why was he alone?

Raised voices cut through his confusion. They weren’t the hysterical screams of a raid. They sounded orderly, like a marshalling of troops. Freddie’s heart picked up a beat. Oh, this had to be father, mounting a defence. Of course, he would never have let anyone take over the family estate just like that!

Freddie moved closer to the gap between the tree roots. Then he paused.

Or was it that bastard Deacon instead?

The bright clap of horses’ hooves on cobbles rang out over the far off voices.

Maybe this was a trap. Maybe there were soldiers posted all around, all over the estate, just waiting for him to make a move. He had heard stories about what happened to those captured alive in raids, especially when no one in their families was left to pay a ransom.

No. He wasn’t going to think like that. His father, Kash, they were fine, they were looking for him!

His legs cramped and he tried in vain to stretch them out a little bit more.

Or if they weren’t looking for him, shouldn’t _he_ be looking for _them_? What was he doing, hiding away like a thief at a time like this?

He put a hand over the dagger dangling from a silver chain on his hip. It was largely ceremonial, full of intricate ornate carvings, but its blade was sharp. How much good it would do him if he came face to face with an enemy was left up to dispute, but it felt comforting. To know he could take out one man at least if he was fast.

Even if that man was himself.He’d rather die than be a slave.

Freddie put his feet firmly against the wall of the hollow and pushed, straightening himself until he could peek out between the roots of the tree. Beams of sunlight were falling between the autumn leaves. The ground was glistening with morning dew.

Around him, everything was silent. All he could hear was the faint rustling of leaves and the far off commotion in the courtyard.

He slid the dagger out of its scabbard and gripped it tightly. He took a deep breath to steady himself, then climbed out of the hole as fast as he could, looking around frantically for attackers. His pulse was pounding in his ears, his breath coming fast and tight as he braced for horses hooves closing in on him, a blade biting into his throat.

But he was alone.

Before his courage could desert him, he crept in the direction of the courtyard, always on the lookout for attackers, spies – or maybe one of his father’s men, looking for him, waiting to bring him back to the house.

Freddie jumped at every noise - almost stabbed himself when a dormouse rustled through the underbrush - but apart from the wind and the wildlife, he was alone.

He took that as a good sign. Surely if there had been an enemy takeover, soldiers would still be swarming the place, right?  
Right?

The nearer he came to the courtyard, the more carefully he moved. He crept from tree to tree towards the edge of the copse, straining his ears for the sound of a familiar voice – his father, the majordomo, or even just one of the slaves.

_Hate-filled sky-blue eyes glaring down at him as a kick drives the air from his lungs._

He came to an overgrown hedgerow. Once it had demarcated the copse, but the trees had long been allowed to grow beyond it. But the wood was less dense here and when he peeked around the edge of the hedgerow, he could just make out the courtyard between the sparse young trees. He couldn’t be more than forty yards away.

Green.

A green flag with a gold border flying over the house. Over _his_ house.

He couldn’t tell whether it was fury or panic washing hot and cold over him. He drew back and pressed his back into the hedgerow, barely feeling the Blackberry thorns digging into his back.

Those bastards. Those absolute bastards, how dared they...! Only one banner was allowed to fly on this estate – a silver wing on a deep blue ground, the colours of his family!

Drums rolled again and a single voice rang out. Freddie didn’t know the voice and that in itself was enough to make him realise – even more than the banner – that they’d lost. Somehow, between yesterday and now, their arch enemy had taken over these lands.

He should run. He should run as far away from this as he could, waiting for a chance to escape from the grounds under the cover of night.

His stomach leaden with dread, Freddie crept around the hedgerow and towards the courtyard, as close as he dared. He crouched behind the trunk of a fallen tree and took in the sight before him.

A full assembly was going on, with mounted soldiers lining the cobbled part of the courtyard. In the middle, huddling close together, were the servants and slaves of the estate. Neither Kash nor his father were anywhere to be seen. On the raised platform, Freddie could make out a tall man with chestnut brown hair, a little younger than his father, maybe in his forties. He’d only ever seen pictures of him, but it was Arthur Deacon, speaking to the assembly as if he had any right to!

“...have taken back these lands to restore what is rightfully ours”, he announced. A drum roll went up.

Freddie gripped the dagger so hard the ornamental grooves dug into his palm. These are not your lands, Deacon. They never will be, not as long as there’s a Bulsara alive.

Deacon turned around ninety degrees so he wasn’t directly facing the crowd anymore. “Will you kneel?”

Freddie craned his head to see who he was speaking to – it must be his father, it _must_ be! – but a massive soldier with a lance was blocking his view.

“Never.”

Freddie would recognise his father’s voice anywhere. It was as strong and commanding as ever. They might have got him for now, but he had to have a plan. Allies riding up from the surrounding estates or his own men planning their attack. Freddie looked around in the vain hope that an army of Bulsara men might have silently risen up around him.

But there was only the trees and the dormice.

“I am the Master of these lands”, his father went on, his voice so determined even while surrounded by enemy soldiers that no one could doubt the truth of his words.

“Were”, Deacon said, his voice so cool and matter-of-fact that Freddie’s blood ran cold.

Deacon nodded towards another man on the platform who got up and pulled a sword from its scabbard.  
No. No, no, no.

A murmur rose up from the assembled crowd. Freddie could make out the head cook, several of the farm-hands, the burly form of the majordomo. They whispered among themselves, but none of them looked close to starting a revolt.

_Father taught them not to._

“I ask again: Will you kneel?”

Freddie closed his eyes, trying to get his breathing under control. If his father knelt, he’d live, but he’d have forfeited his freedom and all claims to the estate, not only for himself but also for his family. If he didn’t...

“I already gave my answer.” There was nothing in his father’s voice that betrayed fear.

Freddie’s thoughts were swirling. He didn’t want his father to kneel, to acquiesce to this travesty. But the alternative was unthinkable. He looked around again, desperately looking for a sign of an uprising, a revolt, a plan to stop all this.

“Then die standing.”

The soldier moved and then his father was in full view at the front of the platform. His fine clothing was torn and there was a bruise covering the entire side of his face, but he was still standing tall, his expression impervious.

Deacon held up his father’s dagger, the sign of his status, and reattached it to his belt, safely out of the way of his bound hands. To die standing meant to die as a Master.

This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t... this was his _father_ , the most powerful man in the world, nothing could bring him down. Not so easily, not without a fight.

Freddie looked down at the dagger in his hand. What would his father say if he saw him standing there, not even trying to fight? Because who if not him should lead that charge? Maybe if the people saw him taking a stand, they’d follow him? His family had been taking care of them all their lives after all, and his father hadn’t knelt so he was still their Master and Freddie his natural successor. He was _owed_ their loyalty.

But he only had a dagger. And he’d never taken his fencing lessons terribly seriously. Deacon had a whole army.

Deacon’s retainer stepped behind his father, sword at the ready.

Everyone, the crowd, that bastard Deacon, the soldiers, they were all looking at his father, transfixed. Now was the time to do it, to save his father or die trying. All he’d have to do was get up and run out there, taking out the first soldier by surprise and then he would...

Blood poured down the front of his father’s shirt. The sun glinted at the tip of the sword where it pierced through the front of his chest. How could it glint when it was covered in blood? His father’s blood. The metal had to be so smooth it was running clear off it.

The glint disappeared and his father was a lifeless form on the ground.

Branches were whipping Freddie’s face as he ran, not out there with a raised dagger, but back into the shadow of the trees. He crawled back into the hollow, not knowing whether he was crying or breathing or screaming.

When he came to, he was cradling his knees to his chest, cheek pressed into the cold earth. Long strands of his hair were clinging to his wet face.

What had he done? He’d watched them cut his father down like a blade of grass and he’d done nothing. What would he have called anyone who had acted like that, any of his father’s officers or retainers? Cowards. Traitors. His father had been bravely facing death, never renouncing his claim, while Freddie was huddling in the dirt like a rat, lower than the most wretched slave.

He was still clutching the dagger like a talisman, although he hadn’t proved worthy of it. He held it up to his face so he could see it in the dim light.

_Even if that man was himself._

But he was still the heir. His father hadn’t knelt, so Freddie was his successor, still technically free. He was his family’s one chance at claiming back their lands.

There was nothing dishonourable about taking one’s own life in defeat. But not curled up in a hole in the ground, cowering in fear and without having at least tried to avenge his family. To find out what happened to his sister - _Don’t think about her lying among the dead, or locked up in some cellar, scared and alone, don’t think about that!_ \- or to those who stood loyal with his father.

He couldn’t take them all on, but he knew the grounds and the house. He could try to sneak inside and ram this beautiful silver blade into Deacon’s neck.

The thought of having to go back in there made him shake with fear – fear of pain, of death, of humiliation – a fear so great it filled this space like a black vapour, making him nauseous. But the thought of his father looking down on him with that perpetual expression of disappointment was worse.

Freddie pressed the flat side of the blade into his cheek, the cold metal comforting him with its steely bite.

Tonight then.

* * *

“Whatever possessed you to ride the old Master’s horse?” Brian wiped a wet cloth over Roger’s forehead. It was hot to the touch. “You must have known you wouldn’t get far.” And Brian liked to think that Roger wouldn’t just leave without him, without even so much of a goodbye.

Roger shrugged as best as he could in his position. He was lying on his front so the injuries on his back could heal. “Stella’s a fine horse. Deserves to be ridden by someone who knows what he’s doing.”

Of course, Roger and his horses. Taking care of them was the only kind of work he ever volunteered for. Which of course meant he didn’t get to do it very often.

“Almost got you killed”, Brian mumbled and carefully peeled back the edge of a bandage.

“Worth it- ah!” Roger hissed as the fabric stuck to the edge of the wound. “Butcher.”

“Sorry. I just want to...” Brian trailed off. The skin around the laceration looked angry red and it was swollen and tender to the touch. There was definitely an infection setting in. He should never have let that quack of a doctor get anywhere near Roger. Brian had always been able to patch Roger up again on his own.

“Anyway.” Roger craned his neck so he could look at Brian. “Tell me again.”

“No.” He’d get some herbs from the garden for that. Yarrow and chamomile, those always helped best.

“Tell me how he died”, Roger insisted.

Brian carefully reattached the bandage. “I told you already. Twice.” Roger took the fact that the Bulsara’s last punishment meant he couldn’t go out to watch his former Master’s demise as a personal insult.

“Yeah, but you left out all the lurid details. Come on. Did he piss himself when he died? Blood shooting out of his mouth, sort of thing?”

“No. It was quick and clean.” Still, the last thing Brian wanted to do was think back on it.

“Pity”, Roger mumbled, followed by a yawn. “You could always make something up you know. Once I’m back down with the others, I’ll hear all sorts of grisly tales.”

Brian sat down on the small stool next to the bed and smiled down on Roger. His golden hair, his tanned skin, marred with old scars and fresh wounds, his slightly glazed sky blue eyes. Always so bloodthirsty while Brian just didn’t have the stomach for it.

He reached for the cloth again, dabbing some fresh sweat off Roger’s forehead. Brian felt awful for it, but there was a part of him that secretly enjoyed it when he got to take care of Roger like that. He just wished it didn’t happen with such alarming regularity.

“’s nice”, Roger sighed, his eyelids growing heavy.

“That’s good.” He looked so relaxed that Brian dared to gently push back a strand of hair from his forehead.

Roger blinked up at him through his long lashes. “Will you stay?”

“Yes”, Brian said immediately, although he had no idea if he’d be allowed. It looked like the new Master was trying to win their loyalty with kindness, at least for now, so maybe he wouldn’t be sent back to the slave’s quarters. “Yes, of course.”

Apart from last night, the only times that Roger had slept alone was when he was locked away in the cells for punishment. No wonder he couldn’t stand it.

As Roger was slowly slipping under, Brian stretched his back and allowed himself to relax for the first time since... well, since Roger tried his idiotic stunt and raced the masters priced sorrel all the way down to Fairfield. He’d spent a whole night and day bearing witness to Roger’s agonising stint at the whipping tree, and then there’d been the whipping itself and _then_ they got caught by Deacon’s men before they’d even made it halfway to the outer wall.

But that hadn’t been the worst of it. The worst had been when they’d taken Roger away from the rest of the slaves without telling Brian where he was or what they were going to do with him. Ever since Brian had come to the Bulsara household, he’d spent his nights at Roger’s side. Not knowing if he’d ever feel his breath against his shoulder as he fell asleep had been torture. It was only after a sleepless night that Brian was taken to this room by one of the new domestic slaves. Roger had been cheeky as ever, but the strain of the last two days had obviously taken their toll on him.

Not that they gave him much time to linger by his friend’s side. First, they’d all been ordered to the courtyard to witness the final end of the old Master. Before Brian could recover from that, the administrative takeover had begun, which meant that Brian had spent the entire day carrying ledgers and explaining numbers to the new majordomo. Until he’d finally been allowed to wolf down some stew and come back here again.

It was unusual. Before, injured slaves were put back to work as soon as they could stand on their feet again. And if they couldn’t, they’d be left in the dank slave’s quarters, not put up in a small – but bright and clean – room of their own like this.

Casting one last look at Roger’s peacefully slumbering form, Brian got up from his chair to run his last errand of the day.

It was risky, sneaking out with the curfew in place and all those new people milling about. The peace was still fragile. But he didn’t want the infection to get out of hand. No matter how lenient the new Master appeared at the moment, it was best to get Roger back on his feet as quickly as possible lest he be thought of as disposable or weak.

The scullery maids were still busy scrubbing pots and pans after the feast and barely looked at him as he snuck past them – they were used to his comings and goings and in the end, it was always better to be able to say you hadn’t seen anything.

There was a frosty taste to the air that night. The days were still warm, hot even when the sun was out, but at night the coming autumn made itself known. Brian kept an eye out for guards, but everything seemed quiet. The wing containing the new Master’s sleeping and living quarters was heavily guarded, and the outer walls had to be as well, but no one seemed to care about the back door to the kitchens.

Brian didn’t need to go far. The herb garden was right next to the kitchen, behind the patio. And even if he got caught on his return, surely if he showed them a handful of medicinal herbs for his friend, they wouldn’t come down too hard on him, would they?

Best not let it come to that. He hurried down the steps to get to the small patch surrounded by a wicker fence, eager to get it done with and get back to-

Something dark and fast knocked him off his feet. There was a metallic clink as something fell to the ground. Brian took an elbow to the stomach and hit back on instinct. He and his assailant rolled over a couple of times, away from the stairs. Finally, Brian got a hold of the other’s lapels and pushed him into the ground. Dark brown eyes stared up at him.

“Get off me right this minute”, the man hissed at him.

Brian froze. It was Frederick Bulsara, the Young Master, he was alive! Everyone assumed he’d fled along with his sister. His face was scratched and bruised, his carefully braided hair in disarray and covered in dried blood, but there was no mistaking those eyes. Or that voice.

Oh god. The last thing Brian did was hit him over the head with a pot. He was going to be flayed alive for that!

“Didn’t you hear, slave?”

That jolted Brian back into the present. This was the man who had whipped his friend half to death, whose family had made their life a living hell. Who was now a stranger on his own lands.

And Brian had his neck within reach.

Simultaneously, both their eyes wandered to the silver dagger glinting in the moonlight. Brian could feel Freddie tense to make a grab for it just as footsteps sounded on the patio overhead.

As one, they lurched sideways, huddling into the shadow of the wall.

Brian pressed the back of his head into the wall, willing the Young Ma... Freddie to keep quiet. If they were found like this, he’d be done for. They’d think he was helping a Bulsara, betraying his new Masters at the first opportunity.

But the footsteps didn’t stop. They continued at their leisurely pace until their echo faded away. Brian took a deep shuddering breath. A light citrusy scent hung in the air. It took Brian a moment to recognise it as that specially made hair water Freddie always used.

“Help me get in”, Freddie whispered.

“What?” Instead of taking his chance to head butt his former Young Master into oblivion, Brian just gaped at him.

“I’ll reward you.”

“With wha... you... how...” There was so much going through Brian’s mind at once. How could Freddie think he was in any position to reward someone? Didn’t he know what happened to his father? Where had he been this whole time? “What are you even doing?”

“Taking back what’s mine”, Freddie growled, but then his suitably dark expression faltered. “My sister”, he asked, his fingers urgently digging into the fabric of Brian’s shirt. “Have you heard word of my sister? Answer, slave!”

Brian answered automatically, old ingrained obedience kicking in at the sound of that voice. “I’ve heard she’s fled with Ella and two other maids”, he heard himself say. “But-“ He stopped, furious with himself. The Bulsaras had been beaten, Brian’s loyalty lay with the new Masters now. Of course, Master Bulsara hadn’t knelt, so Freddie still had a claim. But what did that even mean when he was all on his own, surrounded by enemies?

“What”, Freddie demanded. “But what?”

Brian hesitated a moment, but he didn’t want Freddie to make even more of a ruckus. “I’ve heard the same thing about you”, he whispered.

Freddie was visibly fighting for his composure, hope and despair warring on his face. “Help me get in.”

Again, Brian was so used to obeying that he had almost let go before he realised that no, that was not how it worked anymore. Freddie might have a claim, but

Brian, along with all the other slaves, was not his anymore. “No.”

“How dare you...”

“Hush or I’ll call the guards.” The anger was back in full force. That red-hot burning anger at having to watch Roger flogged to within an inch of his life.

“You wouldn’t... you wouldn’t dare...” But now there was something else in his eyes, something Brian had never seen before. Uncertainty. _Fear._

“There is a new Master now”, Brian said.

Freddie’s face twisted in a grimace of fury. “You traitorous son of a-”

“One more word and I’ll alert the guards. I’ll hand you over to the Deacons as an early Christmas present.” In fact, now that he said it, he realised that was what he should have done minutes ago.

“They... they’d hang you too. I’ll tell them you helped me, I...” Freddie’s eyes narrowed. “Say, are you even allowed out here?”

“I’m out here”, Brian hissed directly into Freddie’s face, revelling in the chance to do this, “to make sure Roger survives what you did to him.”

“What I...” Freddie looked genuinely perplexed. “But that was my father.”

“I _saw_ you. I watched it all.”

“Then you saw that he made me. If I hadn’t, it would only have been worse.”

“So you flogged him for his own good?” The dagger was still lying in the dirt, just a couple of yards away. He was larger than Freddie. If he made a dive for it...

“How is he”, Freddie asked quietly.

“Like you care”, Brian fumed.

“But I do.” The softness in Freddie’s voice made Brian look at his face. There was the same look in his eyes as when he asked after his sister. It tugged at something in Brian’s chest. _Too soft for your own good._

“He’ll pull through, no thanks to you.”

Freddie nodded. “You’ve always taken good care of him.”

That deflated Brian’s anger just enough that the first clear thought in a long while emerged from the chaos in his mind. He realised that he had a gigantic problem on his hands.

Idly chatting with the surviving claimant to the estate, even just knowing he was alive, was treason. He had to turn Freddie in right now. And it would serve him right for what he’d done to Roger. Even more, it might be enough to buy Brian his freedom. And the way Roger would look at him when Brian told him...

But he had seen what they had done to the old Master. He had been strict to the point of cruelty and Brian cursed him more times than he could count, but when that sword had pierced him straight through the heart... Could he deliver another person to that fate in cold blood?

He had to bite back a smile as he imagined Roger’s screams of rage at this line of thought.

“Will you help me?”

Brian’s eyes jerked back to Freddie’s face. He shook his head, finally relaxing his fingers and taking a careful step back. He had to get back inside, fast. “You must be out of your mind to even think of trying.”

Finally free to move, Freddie scrabbled to retrieve his dagger, cradling it against his chest. “You might be sold off. Or sent to another estate of the Deacons. New Masters often split up their slaves to quell rebellion. Imagine if they keep Roger here, while you get sent away to...”

“They’re good to us”, Brian blurted out, although he knew one couldn’t judge a Master after only a day. “Better than you ever were. They brought Roger into a room of his own to recover and had an actual doctor look over him”, although a lot of good _that_ did him, he added silently. “Master Deacon himself spoke to us and promised each of us a fair treatment if we proved loyal.”

“Did he?”

“Yes. No one wants you back, Young Ma... F-Freddie.” It felt weird, forbidden to address him like that, but Brian felt his confidence soar. “Not you or your family.”

“You’ll wish me back”, Freddie threatened, but there was a hint of desperation in his voice.

“Never.” Brian took another step back, towards the stairs. He had to get away. Get away and pretend he’d never seen anything. And if Freddie decided to follow up on his mad plan to take on an army of trained guards with his silly little dagger, then that wasn’t Brian’s problem. “Try to get out of here, and quick. But I certainly won’t-”

“Do you remember the name of that slave boy my father used to take to his chambers?”

The question was unexpected enough that Brian stopped in his tracks. “What boy? But he didn’t...” Something like that would never stay a secret – and why would it, this wouldn’t be something a Master would be ashamed of – but Brian had never even heard the slightest rumour.

“You don’t”, Freddie said, “because he never did. But you _do_ remember the old Majordomo? The one who couldn’t keep his hands off the little girls?”

Brian nodded slowly, trying to gauge where Freddie was going with this.

“And you remember how my father had him broken on the wheel when he found out?”

He tried not to. God, how long had he tried to get those images out of his mind. “What are you...”

“Master Deacon likes blondes.”

Brian felt the blood drain from his face. “You’re lying. You can’t possibly know that.”

“I wonder if he’s taking such good care of all his slaves – or only the pretty ones”, Freddie pondered. “A room of his own? Away from the other slaves? How convenient, don’t you think.”

“You’re making that up. You’re just trying to...” But Brian could feel the tendrils of doubt sneak into his mind, wrapping themselves around his thoughts, twisting them. He remembered how common these things were in the household he grew up in, the furtive whispers, the knowing glances. He knew the stories of new slaves arriving. Master Bulsara had been the exception, not the norm.

“If you help me, I will not only forgive you for assaulting me”, Freddie said, “I will also give you your freedom. Once it is mine again to give.”

“Freddie, we can’t just storm in there and...”

“If I have you on my side, I won’t have to. We can plan, we can work together, bide our time.”

“It would be suicide.”

“Not if we’re clever about it. And you’re clever, right?”

Oh God, how could Brian even contemplate something like that? But then he saw Roger’s feverish face in front of him, so expressive even in sleep. The thought that someone else might put a hand on him...

“Your freedom if you help me”, Freddie repeated, sensing Brian’s indecision. He reached into his shirt and pulled out the silver pendant he wore around his neck, clutching it tightly. It was the one his mother had given him on her deathbed, the one he never took off. “I swear it.” His deep brown eyes implored Brian.

“Roger too”, Brian said.

Freddie nodded. “If he will help me too.”

Hell would freeze over before that happened. But maybe if Brian found a suitably broad definition of helping – like, not beating Freddie into a pulp at the first opportunity – they might get around that. Brian looked at the house, then back at Freddie, whose eyes had gone from commanding to openly pleading.

Just hours ago, if anyone had asked him if he’d ever risk his life to help Freddie Bulsara, he’d have laughed in their face. And now he was standing there actually contemplating... Oh God, how was he ever going to explain _that_ to Roger?

But then the thing Roger wanted more than anything else in the world was freedom. Freddie had promised, had _sworn_ to give it to them.

 _If_ he ever managed to assert his claim. _If_ both Brian and Roger were still alive by then.

Another thought arose in him, a dark one, a mean one, the kind he was not supposed to have. Perhaps there’d be an easier way to win freedoms. If they captured Freddie and delivered him to Master Deacon...

The fantasy was soured by the image of thick fingers adorned with gold rings trailing over Roger’s skin. Perhaps all that was going to happen was that Roger would be offered a “more comfortable” position in the house instead of the back-breaking work in the fields.

Freddie was still standing there, gripping the pendant, an expression of utmost sincerity on his face. Or was he playing Brian for a soft-hearted fool? Poisoning his mind with a few well-placed insinuations?

He had to get back to the house, back to Roger. With every minute he stayed out here, he only made it worse.

Brian took one last look at Freddie. Then he made his decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time (in ages) writing in the past tense, first time (ever) writing Brian POV. Whew.
> 
> Over to Plainxte 😊


	4. Voices in the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please mind the tags, and read safely!
> 
> Thank you to my brilliant co-writers for letting me be a part of this. ❤️ And for listening to and patiently answering all my weird questions about odd details!

He held his breath, trying to stay as quiet as possible. In the night-time quiet of the unfamiliar house, every step was a potential trap; every floorboard that he put his weight on was a potential enemy. One creak, one too-loud noise, and he would be done for. 

Or he would be reported to the Deacon, which amounted to the same thing. The soldiers hadn't paid much heed to his comings and goings during the daytime. A skinny, unremarkable teenager wasn't much of a threat to anyone. But after the curfew, in the quiet of the night, it was a different matter.

He moved slowly, wary and alert, listening to any noises around himself. The air around him smelled of beeswax and candles, soothing and homey. In the seemingly peaceful silence, it was difficult to remember the violence that had taken place on the estate such a short while ago. But it was still simmering underneath the surface. Forgetting that could cost him everything. 

He passed through carpeted corridors upstairs, moving as silently as possible across the landing and to the staircase. Down the stairs, his heart almost stopping when one of the steps groaned under his foot. After a breathless moment, he moved on, a shadow among shadows in the hallway.

Noises; a burst of raucous laughter from the direction of the dining room. He froze, listening. The chirp of night birds seemed louder than ever. Somewhere outside, footsteps moved on the terrace, came closer, receded quickly. Perhaps it was one of the soldiers, doing his rounds. Or perhaps it was one of the slaves. Or perhaps it was someone who had come to…

He shivered. But that was why he was here, wasn't it? To do something about it, at last? Or start to, at least?

With careful, silent steps, he padded past the family room and towards the guest quarters, turning a corner. He didn't know where they'd taken him, exactly. But he was sure he wasn't in the cellars, among the other slaves. They had to have taken him somewhere more private, somewhere more accessible. Him; the slave with light hair who had been beaten so badly, and who he needed to find, before, before they came for him and – well, he had to be here somewhere. 

He passed a door, then another, running his hand lightly across the wood panelling. He heard a tell-tale creak from a little further away in the corridor, and had just time to flatten himself against the wall quickly, hoping it was dark enough to let him escape notice. He turned his head cautiously, and breathed a very small sigh of relief when he saw it was just a scullery maid, walking in the opposite direction, away from him, most probably on an errand of her own. He didn't think she'd seen him, and she'd be unlikely to want to report him to anyone in any case. 

Just as he was contemplating getting moving again, a door opened in the corridor in front of him. A tall, very thin slave with a mop of unruly hair got out, closed the door carefully behind him, and started in his direction. 

He panicked. There was no time and nowhere to hide. He was wracking his brain for an excuse, some story that would explain his presence, but then the slave just walked past him, eyes on the floor, seemingly lost somewhere in his own head.

 _Hold on,_ he thought. _I'm sure that's the same slave that came to collect… him from the healer earlier on. It must be!_

Did that mean that the one he was looking for – the light-haired slave, the one who was too weak to walk on his own legs, the one that the Deacon had singled out for – the one who he desperately needed to talk to, to warn, to save if he could, that he was behind that door? As silently as he could, his heart in his throat, he walked towards the door, putting his hand on the doorknob, and finally turned it as slowly as he could.

* * *

Roger blinked awake. For a moment, he didn't know where he was. He was lying on something warm and soft; that in itself was surprising. Not the slave quarters, then. There was a crackle of fire from one side, and someone was in the room with him.

He lifted his head. He remembered now; the doctor applying a foul-smelling salve on his back, one that hadn't seemed to do much good. People talking around him, words he couldn't concentrate on. Being carried by two of his fellow slaves somewhere to the big house, but not to the familiarity of the cellars. Brian hovering around him. Brian taking care of him. Brian tutting over his bandages.

And the pain.

He remembered, now, as well, Brian telling him the best of all possible news: that the Bulsara was dead. Really and truly dead. He felt a moment of dark satisfaction at the thought. That the Bulsara's blood had spurted in an arc across the courtyard. In the same place where he had himself been tied to the tree, just some hours earlier. 

Roger pushed himself up from the bedding onto slightly wobbly arms and shook his head. His earlier state of groggy numbness had faded, leaving him with a fever, and with it pain, and a memory of pain. He tried to remind himself that he was no longer tied to the tree. He knew that his hands were now free, and that he no longer felt the whip cracking on his back, breaking his skin and drawing blood. It was a memory. But still he was swimming in a haze that left everything blurry around the edges.

"Brian?" he croaked.

But it wasn't Brian in the room. It wasn't his familiar, angular shape. Instead, there was a scrawny brown-haired boy standing just inside the door, chest heaving like he'd just been running, eyes wide. His hair was braided, although from what he could see, not very intricately. But it was enough. He was one of _them_ , then. Another one who wanted to stare and mock and assert his status. Well, he could try. Just as others had before him. Roger's lip curled in a sneer.

"Come to gloat, then, have you? _Master?_ "

The boy swallowed, his fingers fidgeting nervously with his clothing. It seemed like he couldn't turn his eyes away from Roger. He supposed his back must have been quite a sight; clearly it was something that this soft little slave-owner in the making wasn't quite used to. Wasn't quite used to stomaching. _Too bad,_ Roger thought grimly.

The boy's voice was quiet and surprisingly hesitant.

"No, it's not that. I'm sorry for disturbing your rest. I really am. But I couldn't just leave it – you see, I heard them talking, and I had to warn you –"

Roger snorted, and immediately wished he hadn't. It sent a fresh spike of pain through his sore head. It felt like the whole of his scalp was on fire.

"Warn me? About what? The dreadful consequences of disobedience?"

It was difficult to be certain, between the dim light of the fire and the way his vision was swimming – and the boy was quite far away, really – but it looked as though he was blushing. 

"No, I mean, I –"

Then the boy did something odd: he raised both of his hands, slowly, cupping them and extending them towards Roger, as though he was offering him something. It was an innocent enough gesture, but not one that anyone would make accidentally. 

Astonished, Roger sat up in his bed and opened his mouth to speak, when there was a sound of voices in the corridor. Probably a patrol. But the boy flinched and dropped his hands quickly, as though he had been burned. He turned on his heel and escaped through the door, leaving Roger gaping after him.

* * *

Sometime later, he came to again when he heard the door turn on its hinges. He opened his eyes, and when he saw Brian's shaggy head, he sighed in relief.

"Where did you go? I woke up and you weren't here."

Brian started guiltily.

"I'm sorry, Roger. I thought I'd get you something to help with your back. Are you in pain?"

A moment, and then Brian was crouching beside his bed, safe and warm. He was carrying what looked like fresh bandages and a small bundle of vaguely familiar herbs, along with a steaming cup of something that smelled bitter.

"Can you sit up a little, Rog? Just for a while?" he asked, in his soft voice. "I want you to drink this."

Groaning, he managed to take hold of the cup, grimacing at the taste.

"I know," Brian said apologetically. "But it'll be good for you. The willow bark will help with the inflammation."

Brian wasn't quite his usual soothing self, though; even in his muddled state, Roger could see that something had rattled him. He was sorting out the bandages, but Roger could see that his fingers, normally so nimble and sure, were trembling. Brian kept glancing towards the door, turning his head uneasily at every sound.

"Where did you get this stuff?" Roger asked, hoping to calm Brian down. "It's not the usual fare, is it?" He took a small sip of the brew. Although the tea tasted almost unbearably bitter, it was as though he could feel it soothing his headache instantly.

Brian twitched, and almost dropped his bandages. "Oh, it's not – I had help with it – you see I promised to – that is, we'll need to – don't worry about it," he blurted out, words running into each other. "It'll help you heal. He said it's what they always use – that is, do you mind if I do your bandages now? I brought herbs."

Roger frowned, but decided he was too out of it, head too fuzzy, to argue the matter. He'd get the whole story from Brian later. He pushed the almost empty cup aside, sinking back onto his stomach with a little sigh. Just before drifting off, he remembered the strange boy.

"Oh, Bri?"

"Hmm?" Brian was peering at his bundle of herbs, separating the different kinds neatly.

"There was someone here earlier. A boy. Some kid with braids in his hair," Roger said.

"Braids?" Brian said, in alarm, turning to him, everything else forgotten. "Are you sure? Did he – did he touch you? He didn't hurt you, did he?"

Roger snorted, and then realised for the second time that night that in his current condition, it was a very bad idea.

"Nah. But Brian, what he did is, he made the sign. The sign of –" he tried to bring his hands close to another, feebly, in an approximation of the gesture the boy had used.

Brian's sharp inhale was loud in the stillness of the night.

"Do you think he meant it, Roger? That he knows what it is? That there's someone connected to to – those people, in the house?"

* * *

John only came to a halt when he was safely back in the shadowy, deserted corridor that led to the room that he had been shown to when they arrived. His heart was still hammering in his chest, in excitement and in fear. 

He had failed. Lost his nerve when it mattered the most. He wasn't sure if the slave had even understood what he was saying, in the end. But in his mind, he kept seeing the feverish glow on the other's face, his glassy eyes, and the mess of bloody bandages covering his back. The thought of what lay under them was enough to make him gag. He leaned against the wall, shutting his eyes, trying to breathe evenly. 

Ever since he was a child, he remembered Arthur Deacon – his father – ranting and raving about the Bulsaras. Those bastards, the thieves who had stolen the estate that was rightfully his. Sometimes, his mother had tried to remind him that Arthur's father had, in fact, gambled his whole inheritance away; the country estate had been just one of the many casualties in his downward spiral. But to no avail. Arthur's life was consumed by the thought of the estate, and everything that, in his mind, should have been different.

When John's mother had died, four years ago, when John was twelve, it had become even more of a fixation for Arthur. He spoke of little else, and had devoted all of his energy to plotting and planning. One way or another, he swore, he would get rid of the Bulsaras.

The events of the past two days had been the culmination of years of planning. The soldiers and retainers had been assembled, the majority of them transported first to a location near the town of Fairfield, using one of the ancient, prohibitively expensive Crafts. Then the rest of the journey had been conducted on horseback and on foot. Everything had gone off without a hitch. Or, in any case, no one dared voice any opinions to the contrary. And now the Deacon colours, green and gold, were finally flying above the estate. It was only what was right. That is, if you asked Arthur Deacon.

For his son, however, it was a different matter. Ever since one particular day, the day after his mother's funeral, in fact, when he had peeked out from his hiding place – there was a recessed window with a narrow window-seat in their old home, with curtains that could be drawn to hide whoever was sitting there. John often took refuge there; Julie knew not to bother him unless it was an emergency. John had peeked out, curious and a little annoyed by the odd noises he had heard, and seen his father with one of their slaves, a young man – and seen his father – seen him touch the other man's – seen him violate – 

No. He still wouldn't go there. He still wasn't going to think about it. 

He had refused to talk to his father after that day. He refused to think of him as his father from then on. No amount of shouting, threats or punishments had made an ounce of difference. He had simply stayed quiet, staring at the floor. Unmoving, unmoveable. Like a rock. No one could make him budge. Finally, his grandmother had suggested that maybe it would be best if the children, John and Julie both, would come to stay with her for a while.

But John was still the Deacon's heir. So on the day of the great victory, when the Deacon finally reclaimed the Bulsara estate, it was imperative that his son would be there. It was essential that the gathered soldiers and slaves would look at him and see that a man whose rule was secure and succession guaranteed. 

But deep inside John, there was a certainty that he would never be like that man who he no longer called his father. He would not become like him. He would never be the Master of an estate. And he would never – no. He never spoke about it with anyone, not even with Julie, but it had become a cornerstone for his whole being. He had been called stubborn ever since he could remember; but in his own mind, there were simply some things that were right, and some things that were wrong, and there was no space for negotiation. 

Owning people was one of those things. He didn't need his grandmother's stories and songs, about a golden time in the past when everyone was free, to tell him that; he didn't even need the memory of that day when – no. From the time when he first learned that in this world of theirs, some people owned, and some were owned, he had felt uneasy about it. But that day after his mother's funeral had turned it into a rock-hard certainty, one that had only been strengthened by the years spent with his grandmother, listening to her talking. 

And so it had been a natural step to start seeking out other people who thought the same way. Despite his age, he had connections among a wide network, looking to bring a change to the present state of things. He had seen his chance to prove himself in coming to the estate, to start making a difference. And now he had gone and made a mess out of it.

* * *

Freddie moved through the night, creeping along the corridors of the house he knew so well he could navigate it blindfolded. But although the way was familiar, he was acutely aware of how profoundly everything had changed, in such a short time. He was in hostile territory, now. And everything he had known and based his life on was suddenly gone. He swallowed. Now wasn't the time. He had had his time of disorientation before. Now he had to stay alert, and focus.

It made it even more difficult to concentrate that the encounter with the slave – with _Brian,_ he corrected himself – kept playing itself out in his mind. The contempt and the fury in the other's eyes, and his initial outright refusal to help, had left him reeling, however much he tried not to let it show. And even more so, the small but genuine smile Brian had given him downstairs just before they had parted, wasn't letting him go.

He still had no clear plan, beyond the absolute conviction that somehow, he would find a way to make right what had happened. And that he was going to make Arthur Deacon pay for what he had done. He tightened his hold around the dagger. But first, he needed to get an idea of what was happening upstairs. Maybe find a place to hide. And then he'd see. He turned a corner in the upstairs hallway, heading towards what once upon a time used to be his mother's quarters.

Suddenly, a door was thrown open, and he found himself face to face with exactly the man whose downfall he had just been planning. Arthur Deacon was standing in front of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do tell me what you thought!
> 
> And now, after that brief solo, it's over to my co-creators!


	5. Helpless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paralysed by the realisation that there was nothing, absolutely nothing he could do now, Brian felt rooted to the spot, hands flying up in despair. Trembling fingers tightening in his curls, he heard himself make a sound somewhere between a sob and a whimper, physically trying to twist away from the awful reality of the situation. 
> 
> “Oh God, _oh God_ …”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand it's me again! 
> 
> Please mind the tags. I mean it.  
> I made myself feel very icky writing parts of this.
> 
> I'm having so much fun though, much love to my awesome fellow authors. <3

\- - -

At long last the house was quiet. Not a creak, not a shuffle to be heard. Only the rustle of leaves in the wind coming through the open window reached his ears, and the songs of the night birds. It felt strange after all the chaos. 

John waited a bit longer, eyes wide open in the dark. Staring at the ceiling in the still unfamiliar room, tired but refusing to close his eyes in case sleep overtook him. The events of the last two days played out in his mind, over and over, and he catalogued them, made note of them, to ensure he wouldn't forget any of it once he'd start talking. He wanted to tell her everything. After all, she was the only person he could tell, in such detail. The only person he wanted to tell, really. 

Once enough time had passed, and he felt certain that no one was awake anymore but the night guards at the gate, John threw back his blanket and climbed out of bed. Treading very carefully, so as not to make a sound, he tip-toed over to the wardrobe and slowly turned the key. The hinges of the door creaked a little and he winced, opening it slower still. 

Kneeling down, he dug through his clothes and retrieved the old, threadbare blanket which had his name beautifully stitched across one corner in cursive. His grandmother’s handiwork. John pulled it into his lap.

He really hoped that Ronnie was still awake. Perhaps waiting, like he was, in the dark. Listening to the sound of static and waiting. Hoping. 

John unwrapped the blanket and smiled to himself as he beheld the gadget of his own creation. Well, not quite, of course. He had half built and half repaired it, painstakingly, at his grandmother's house. Disappearing for hours at a time into the woodlands to scour the crash site of the ancient craft, rusting away between the trees. Painstakingly experimenting with everything he found, armed with his late grandfather’s tools. Taking things apart, trying to understand the connections and mechanisms, before putting it all back together. 

More than a year had gone by, and still he felt as proud of his achievement as he had felt that first day when it had whirred to life in his hands, making him shriek with excitement so loudly his grandmother had come rushing in to see if he was alright. 

Cradling it as though it was his dearest possession - which it was - John sneaked back to his bed and carefully put it down on his pillow, careful not to tangle the cords. Then he quickly closed the window, just in case, before he climbed back into bed and pulled the blanket over himself. He didn't need to see, to know what he was doing. The precise location of every button and every dial was known to him. Taking a hold of the handle, he cranked it as fast as he could, for as long as he could. The quiet mechanical whirring sound seemed awfully loud in the quiet of the night, putting him on edge as his mind listed the various ways in which this was such a risky endeavour. But he kept going until his arm ached, a finger at the ready on the on switch. 

When he pressed it, the white noise emanating from the headphones filled him with a comfort few other things gave him. More than anything else, it made him feel so alive. The excitement of secrecy, of being part of something so much bigger than himself, the longing to speak to someone who _understood_. His fingers brushed over the dial, the correct frequency already set. He pulled out the antenna and lifted the blanket a little to extend it out, towards the window, hoping that he wasn't too far out of reach in this new, strange place. Oh, what an awful thought that was. No, it couldn’t be. The Deacon estate, now left in the hands of his aunt, was not so far away that it should make a difference. He hoped. He prayed, and put on the headphones, turning down the volume a little until the static was a soothing whisper in his ears. Then he felt for the microphone and picked it up, pressing down the button on the front of it as he brought it to his mouth, lips brushing cold metal. 

"Ronnie. Ronnie, it’s me. Ronnie, are you there?" John whispered, and released the button. And waited. 

Seconds passed. 

He tried again. 

"Ronnie? Can you hear me?" 

There was a crackle and John's heart beat a little faster as he listened closely, not daring to breathe. 

"Johnny?"

John smiled. Not many people had ever called him that, no one but Ronnie and his grandmother, and that was alright. He didn't mind it, coming from them. He still remembered the day when he and Ronnie had confided their real names to each other. He didn’t know anyone else’s real name and neither did she. Then again, it wasn’t so often that they heard from the others, especially the grown-ups and purported leaders of their secret movement who often disappeared for weeks at a time. Crystal, Miami... (John had been excited to find out, from one of his grandmother’s old books, that Miami had been the name of a real place on the former east coast of America. It was described as a tropical paradise.) 

"Can you hear me?" he said, allowing himself to speak as loudly as he dared, barely above a whisper. 

"I can hear you loud and clear." Came the reply, and John's smile grew wider.

"How have you been?" he asked, after a second's pause, to make sure he wasn't trying to speak over her. 

"Not too dreadful." Her voice sounded warm, if a little tinny, in his ears. "I was worried about you."

"I'm okay." John closed his eyes, leaning his cheek onto his hand. "It's done,” he sighed, “We’ve taken over the Bulsara estate." 

"Tell me everything." Came Ronnie's reply, her voice an urgent whisper.

And John did. 

\- - -

“There.” Brian tucked the end of a bandage into place. “That’s done.”

Roger gave a grateful hum, eyes half-closed. If kept his head still it barely hurt anymore. But when Brian rose from the bed, he lifted it nevertheless, peering at him tiredly. “Where you going? Thought you were gonna stay...”

“I will,” Brian said softly, and sighed, glancing towards the door.

Roger frowned. “You’re not gonna go and ask permission, are you? Come on... as if anyone gives a fuck where you sleep, as long as you’re out of their way.”

This wasn’t entirely true, of course, but Roger knew Brian well but didn't know the new majordomo. And if Brian was going to go and ask for permission, which he was clearly intent on doing, all it would probably do was decrease his chances of spending the night in the same room as Roger.

“Just stay,” Roger added quietly, holding Brian’s gaze. “Please?”

A small smile tugged at the corners of Brian’s lips and Roger bit back an answering smile, closing his eyes. “Or go, if you must,” he murmured dismissively, “See if I care.”

“I’ll just go to the washroom.” Brian assured him. “I’ll be back very soon.”

“Use the one here,” Roger told him, even though he knew Brian wouldn’t set foot into that en suite out of fear that someone might find out he had, however small the chance. It was absolutely incredible that Roger had been permitted to make use of it.

“I… well, I don’t think… I’ll just be a few minutes.” His friend murmured, and Roger heard the door creak.

“Okay.” he whispered, blinking his eyes open just in time to catch a glimpse of Brian’s slender back and short, curly hair as he left the room.

With a sigh, he shifted a little, grimacing at the pain in his back, and turned his head the other way, resting it atop of his folded arms again. However, not half a minute later, the door opened again, and Roger gave a quiet snort. “Well, that was fast-”

He started saying, but then registered that what he was hearing didn’t sound like Brian’s footsteps at all. Roger lifted his head a split second before someone seized his arms, pulling them behind his back. He strained against the hold instinctively, taken off guard and confused. “Hey, what’s- What are you doing?”

There were two men standing beside him. Slaves. However, they had to be Deacon’s because he didn’t know their faces. Before he could think to pull himself free, his arms were already being tied behind his back, rope cutting into his wrists which were still sore from the previous day.

“Ahh… What the hell is going on?”

They wouldn’t meet his eye, neither one of them, infuriatingly going about their business as if they couldn’t hear him at all.

“Will _someone_ please tell me what the fuck is going on!” His own voice rang weaker than he would have liked in his ears, his words a little slurred. The world spun as they pulled him to his feet and secured him between them.

“You’ve been sent for.” One of them finally replied as they dragged him to the door, and Roger stumbled along, his head fuzzy from the fever and the pain shooting through his back as he was manhandled. “Quiet, now. Don’t kick up a fuss.”

The amount of times he had heard those words in his life…

“And what if I do?” Roger retorted, defiantly narrowing his eyes at one of the slaves who was yanking him along, the one who had spoken to him. “What are you gonna do about it?”

The man sighed, finally meeting Roger’s eye. “Me?” he asked, the look on his face one that Roger knew well. Defeat. Resignation. Numbness. “Nothing,” he said, and renewed his grip on Roger’s arm.

These men were not his enemies. Roger knew that. They were following orders because not following them meant punishment or worse.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked, throwing a last glance down the corridor, hoping for a glimpse of curly hair and hazel eyes. But the corridor was empty. 

“Upstairs,” Came the answer, even as they approached the staircase, and Roger frowned in confusion. Slaves were never usually allowed upstairs, or they certainly hadn’t been while Bulsara had been their Master. With the exception of a select few of the domestic slaves, who cleaned the rooms and braided the masters’ hair. Why in the world was he being taken upstairs?

As his foggy mind searched for an answer while he climbed the staircase unsteadily, hurried along by the two men, a horrific thought crossed his mind.

_You’ve been sent for._

Instantly, he became aware that he was dressed in nothing but a fresh pair of cotton breeches and the bandages covering his wounds. Then he thought of the en suite, where to his utter astonishment he had been allowed to wash this morning. The strong, sweet scent of the bar of soap they kept there had almost made him feel sick, so odorous was it, and still he’d held it up to his face, breathing deeply. Greedily taking his fill of a luxury which was never usually granted to him. But now, it was all coming together in his mind and his stomach turned, the blood running cold in his veins. 

No, no. But it couldn’t be. This couldn’t be happening, not to him. He’d heard the stories, of course. From Brian and other slaves who had come from different estates. 

Realisation began to set in and his blood ran cold in his veins as they reached the top of the stairs. 

“Who- who sent for me?” 

The man on his right, who had been quiet until now, gave a quiet snort. “Who do you think.”

It was with a feeling of rising dread and panic that Roger found himself pushed into one of the lavish bedrooms and left there, the key turning in the lock behind him by the time he’d turned around, staring at the door. For a few moments, he strained against the rope tying his hands behind his back in vain, then stumbled forward towards the window. It didn’t offer a route of escape as he could not open it, and even if he had been able to… What good would that have done? The choice was the same as it had been all his life. Submit to what was being asked of him, or else face the consequences. Old Bulsara, that mean bastard, had derived a certain pleasure from laying down the law and meting out punishments to whoever broke it. Roger had exploited this, knowing that if he stepped out of line, what awaited him was a beating or a flogging. Nothing he couldn’t live through, nothing he couldn’t recover from. But he did not yet know this new Master. 

What he did know was that slaves were expendable.

And Roger didn’t want to die.

But right now he was considering taking the risk, faced with the possibility- 

No. There was no way in hell, he wouldn't do it! His eyes flitted around the room, looking for something, anything, that could be used as a weapon or perhaps to cut the rope around his wrists. But the room was bare safe for a chaise longue, a wardrobe and the large, luxurious four-poster-bed. As his eyes lingered on the latter, having found nothing that could help him nor save him, Roger felt his stomach drop down a bottomless hole. For all his bravado and fearless tenacity, in that moment, Roger felt utterly terrified. Just a helpless boy, trapped and trembling, his aching head swimming from the fever. 

No. No, no, no, no. _Please,_ no. Anything but this. 

Behind him, the key turned in the lock.

\- - -

"I couldn’t stop thinking… what if I get caught? You know?" John sighed, and shook his head, biting his lower lip, still holding down the button. It was very hot and stuffy under the blanket. He could feel his hair sticking to his forehead, a droplet of sweat running down the side of his neck and into the front of his shirt. "I just… I lost my nerve." 

As he released the button, he felt renewed embarrassment and anxiously waited for her response. He didn’t want to hear disappointment in her voice, even though he knew she would only be supportive and kind. She always was.

“You were brave enough to try.” said Ronnie, “And you’ll try again. That’s the most important thing.”

“Yeah,” whispered John, even though she couldn’t hear him at the moment.

“Never give up.”

John waited a second to see if she would say something more, and then held down the button on the microphone. “Never give up,” he echoed, at the same time wondering if it was all worth it. If there was even the smallest chance that they could actually change something, one day, or if it was all in vain. He didn’t like to dwell on that, because sometimes it seemed so hopeless. “Anyway,” he said, and brushed his hair out of his face, “You’re not gonna believe what happened then…”

\- - -

Brian stopped by the kitchen to get a glass of water before making his way back to the guest quarters. What with the fever, he had to make sure Roger stayed hydrated, especially in this heat. The nights didn’t bring much relief, with the air still heavy and stuffy, even though the worst of summer was over this late into September.

There was an underlying anxiety he couldn’t shake; the knowledge that Freddie was most likely still lying in wait somewhere right around the corner, waiting for the corridors to empty, before he enacted his attempt at revenge on his father’s arch rival and murderer. Brian allowed himself to think about it, for just a moment, To contemplate the possibility that Freddie would actually succeed, take back the estate, keep his promise and-

Set him free. 

The very idea seemed ludicrous. Why in the world had he trusted the Young Master’s words at all, when he knew perfectly well what deception, cruelty and indifference they all were capable of? And yet, the earnest look in Freddie’s eyes had moved him. Neither Frederick nor Kashmira had ever been of the sort to treat the slaves cruelly just for their own amusement, that much was true. It was something that had surprised Brian when he had first arrived at this estate, because where he came from the Master’s children had had free reign to humiliate and torment the slaves to their hearts’ content, and he had expected nothing less. So to say that Brian hated the Bulsara children would have been untrue, because they were kind, if only by virtue of not being intentionally cruel. Roger didn’t see it that way, of course, and frequently reprimanded him for what he perceived as defeatism.  
Roger’s bloody fighting spirit would get him killed one day, Brian thought, but smiled a little despite himself as he reached the room.

“Hey, I’m...” The words died in his throat as he opened the door and found the bed empty, no sign of Roger in the room. ‘He must be in the washroom’, Brian immediately reasoned, and put the glass of water down on the dresser, spilling some of it, before he rushed to the door of the en suite and pulled it open. 

It, too, was empty.

And suddenly, Freddie’s words rang in his ears with horrific clarity. _’Master Deacon likes blondes.’_

“Oh God,” Brian slowly backed out, hand slipping off the handle limply. “Oh no…”

He’d only been gone for five minutes, no more. Only five minutes, maybe ten? But that was enough time for someone to come and take Roger away, of course it was. Roger, who had asked him to please stay, he thought, and was filled with guilt and dread. Why, oh why, had he left him alone? Although what good would it have done even if he had been here, if they had come for him… If it was all true.

Paralysed by the realisation that there was nothing, absolutely nothing he could do now, Brian felt rooted to the spot, hands flying up in despair. Trembling fingers tightening in his curls, he heard himself make a sound somewhere between a sob and a whimper, physically trying to twist away from the awful reality of the situation. 

“Oh God, _oh God_ …”

He couldn’t breathe and closed his eyes, pressing his hands to his face. Think. There had to be something he could do, he just had to _think_.

‘Master Frederick’, his mind suddenly supplied with startling clarity. Freddie, he corrected himself, who was on his way to assassinate the man who had more than likely sent for Roger. He was Brian’s only hope! He was _Roger’s_ only hope, Brian thought frantically. He had to find him and tell him- and make him-

With single-minded determination, Brian rushed out of the room, quickly looking about himself, and headed where he was never usually allowed to go. To the stairs, leading up to the masters’ bedrooms. He didn’t yet have a plan, he had no idea what he hoped to achieve, but if there was even the tiniest chance that he could have a hand in taking down Master Deacon before he could get his hands on Roger then, by God, he was going to try.

His heart pounded in his throat and the rush of blood was so loud in his ears that he kept throwing wary looks over his shoulder as he crept up the stairs, afraid that he wouldn’t hear if anyone approached. Bathed in cold sweat, his mind was running wild with excuses he could make as to why he was here, the fear for his own fate was only overshadowed by his fear for Roger’s.  
Just as he reached the top of the stairs, he heard footsteps approach at the bottom and leapt out of the way, pressing his back against the wall and staring at a spot on the opposite wall where a painting had clearly been removed, leaving a dark square on the wall. All around the house, the remnants of the Bulsara’s ownership of the estate had already been taken down and burned out in the backyard. 

The footsteps passed the bottom of the staircase and faded again, and Brian exhaled a shuddering breath. Probably one of soldiers on night patrol. He had observed them earlier, tracking their routes for some time before he had helped Young Ma- _Freddie_ sneak into the house.

Freddie, who surely had to be here somewhere, although now it occurred to Brian that perhaps he was still hiding downstairs. In which case Brian was entirely on his own, weaponless and unprepared. Not that he would have dared raise a weapon against one of the masters, because what good could come of that other than his swift execution? What was he hoping to achieve here? What in God’s name was he going to _do_?

‘Find Roger,’ he thought frantically, ‘find Roger and pray that Freddie gets to Master Deacon before that vile man finds Roger first.’ Brian began to edge along the wall in the dark corridor, only illuminated by an oil lamp mounted on the wall. As he slowly moved towards the closest door, he became aware of footsteps around the corner to the right of him, moving closer fast. In a wild panic and with no time to think of another way out, Brian lunged for the door and opened it, throwing himself inside the room and pulling it shut behind him as quietly as he could. To his relief, he was standing in a dark washroom, alone, his pulse hammering loudly in his ears. His hand was clammy on the door handle but he gripped it tightly and closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the door, barely breathing as he listened.

“...while I go and tell one of the guards to come upstairs,” a male voice was saying.

“Alright,” replied another, and Brian could hear them turning onto the stairs, thankfully, headed for the ground floor. “Have you seen how enormous the cellar is? This whole estate is bigger than any I’ve seen.”

“Yes, I was going to say that. I understand now why Master Deacon was so set on…”

Their voices faded away and Brian released his death grip on the handle, drawing a deep breath. He stood a while longer, listening out for any sound, on the verge of leaving the room when he heard the staircase creak again, or thought he did. It was hard to tell though the door. He thought he heard movement, but it was very faint. Maybe he was mistaken. Terrifying minutes went by, a part of his mind screaming at him to _move_ , the other scrambling for a way to get Roger out of his horrific predicament if he did manage to find him. Yet another bleak part of him pointed out what a fruitless endeavour this was. Even if he did find Roger, there was nowhere for them to escape to, not in the long run, Brian knew, and wanted to cry. 

Finally, when he had stood in silence for what felt like far too long, he took heart and opened the door again, carefully leaning out into the dim corridor. Moving as fast as he could while making barely a sound, Brian left the door ajar and decided to creep in the direction which the two men had come from. He really didn’t know where he was going at all. The upstairs was as vast as the downstairs. Here were the bedrooms, the library (which he would have given anything to be allowed into), and goodness knew what else. Somewhere there was a piano, Brian knew, because one could hear it being played from downstairs. Keeping close to the wall, Brian desperately tried to keep his breathing quiet, drawing quick breaths through his nose, and very slowly and carefully peered around the corner into the next section of the corridor. 

He spotted him almost immediately then, and his eyes went wide. There at the other end of the corridor was none other than Freddie, his slight form half cast in shadows and warily hunched over as he moved along the wall, much like Brian was doing, dagger in hand. Brian looked on as the man with the intricately braided raven-black hair cast a look over his shoulder and moved towards the centre of the corridor. And then, several things happened at once in very quick succession. Brian heard the sound of heavy boots coming up the stairs and the next second one of the doors right beside Freddie swung open, flooding the corridor with light.

It all happened incredibly fast. So fast Brian could only process it in breathless moments flashing before his eyes, rather than as a whole. The tall, imposing silhouette of Master Deacon in the doorway, a moment of confusion followed by grim recognition on his face. Freddie’s pale, desperate grimace in the beam of light. A flash of metal as he lunged forward. A groan and a thud as Master Deacon fell against the door frame, mouth wide open, one hand flying up to the dagger lodged in his abdomen.

“Guard!” he croaked, and fell over onto the floor, even as Freddie stumbled back until he collided with the opposite wall, staring at him in shock. 

The heavy footfall behind Brian sped up and he whipped around in time to see a soldier rush past him. Instinctively, Brian took a few steps forward, after him, forgetting secrecy, forgetting consequences. Standing in the middle of the corridor, he looked on as, having finally gathered his wits, Freddie turned to run. But too late. The soldier tackled him to the ground, twisting his arms behind his back, a horrified look on his face as he looked over to where the Master of the estate lay bleeding. Then he turned back over his shoulder, staring straight at Brian.

“What are you standing there for!” he barked, “Quick! Get help!”

Freddie’s eyes, a fearful, shell-shocked expression in them, briefly found his own even as Brian took a few steps back and turned, rushing towards the staircase. He was halfway down the corridor when he suddenly stopped and wondered what the hell he was doing, blindly following an order the way he was all but programmed to do, instead of- 

What?

It wasn’t as if there was anything else he could have done. Should he have tried to help Freddie? _Could_ he have helped Freddie? Taken out the guard? Hardly.

Then again, perhaps it wasn’t what he could do but what he could _not_ do. If he didn’t run for help, maybe Master Deacon would die from the stab wound right there on the floor and the estate would be Freddie’s and he would be free, and Roger- oh God, where was Roger? 

Someone was running up the stairs and Brian looked up and saw another soldier appear.

“I heard shouting!” he called, running toward Brian, “What’s going on?”

Brian barely had time to open his mouth before the other soldier’s voice echoed through the corridor.

“THIS WAY!”

Already, there were more people coming up the stairs, slaves or soldiers, Brian didn’t know. But he realised that his inaction would have no effect at all. Once again, he was helpless. Utterly, infuriatingly helpless. As the second soldier rushed past him, hardly giving him a second glance, Brian caught sight of a figure in the corridor at the other side of the staircase. A boy stood there, eyes wide, his pale face framed by long, dark hair. It took Brian a split second to recognise him as Master Deacon’s teenaged son, who had been at the execution this morning. The boy’s eyes landed on him and Brian instinctively bowed his head.

“What happened?” the boy called, “What’s happening?”

“Master Deacon…” Brian replied, his voice hoarse. “Master Deacon has been stabbed.”

\- - -

“Oh my God… is he _dead_?” Ronnie whispered, both horrified and awed.

John shook his head, even though she couldn’t see him. “No. They say he’ll live.” He took his finger off the button and waited, but she speak, and so he continued. “There was so much blood though. Have you ever seen a puddle of blood? It’s dark… like ink, or something. And I… I just… I couldn’t stop staring at him lying there.”

He grimaced at the sweat stinging in his eyes and lifted a corner of the blanket to let a bit of air in. A pale moon hung in the sky above the trees, outside his window.

“It must have been awful.” Her voice was quiet and concerned, sounding so close, he almost felt she was in the room with him. It was a comforting thought. “I’m so sorry.”

John pulled the blanket down again. 

“Don’t be. You know, I…” He hesitated and drew a breath. “I think I really wanted him to be dead.” It sounded worse, out loud. He blinked and swallowed, not daring to release the button because he wasn’t sure what she might say to that. No one, not even Ronnie, knew the real reason why he hated his father the way he did. But she understood, because she despised her parents, too. Some of the things she had told him made his blood curdle, and he dreaded to imagine what she hadn’t told him. 

“Is that bad?” he finally asked, and lifted his finger off the button.

For several long seconds, John listened to the white noise, waiting for her reply.

“No.”

Exhaling a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, John lay down on his back, propping the blanket up with his knees and one hand above his head. ‘I’m really glad I have you,’ he wanted to say.

“Will you… can we listen to some music?” he asked instead. “Please?”

“What shall I play?”

John wasn’t sure. He loved all of the music Ronnie had. It was so strange to listen to, almost magical. Recorded music. The sound of instruments John liked to imagine, but had never seen. His father was strictly against it, just like most things from the Before Days, unless they happened to be a means to an end he wanted to achieve. 

“Our favourite?” Ronnie asked, and John realised he still hadn’t answered.

“Yeah,” he breathed into the microphone. “That.”

\- - -

Choked up with dread, Roger turned as the door opened and instinctively backed away a few steps. 

Any vestige of hope that by some grace of God, this wasn’t what he thought it was, shattered, leaving him cold and numb. Before him stood Master Deacon, no longer in his finely tailored clothes but in a thick, dark burgundy robe, his thin lips curling into a smirk as he beheld him.

“Ahh,” he drawled languidly, “What a marvellous day... this has been.” 

Roger watched him close the door and continued to stare at the gilded door handle as his new Master approached him, sizing him up with a sort of lewd appreciation that twisted Roger’s stomach in knots.

“Wouldn’t you say?” He reached out and grabbed a fistful of Roger’s hair, yanking him closer as he leaned down to his ear. “What do you say, boy?”

“Yes, _Master_.” Roger ground out quietly through gritted teeth, the title dripping with disdain. 

Master Deacon gave a quiet snort and released his grip on Roger’s hair, trailing his fingers down the side of his neck. Roger pulled away, but Deacon was fast and grabbed him by the back of the neck, his other hand seizing Roger’s upper arm.

“They told me you’re a feisty one.” he murmured quietly against Roger’s ear, and quite casually ran his tongue along the shell of it, making Roger want to gag and try to twist away.

“You can’t-” he all but growled under his breath, swallowing down the words which wanted out. ‘You can’t do this! Fuck off and let me go! I won’t let you, I’ll bite your fucking dick off, you fucking piece of-’

“What can’t I?” Deacon’s mocking voice leered into his ear.

Roger tried to pull his arm free and failed. He didn’t have his full strength, weakened by the fever and his injuries, and the man was taller and far bulkier than him, his large hands unyielding.

“Can’t make me.” he spat, regardless, wishing his voice sounded firmer. Squeezing his eyes shut in disgust when Deacon stepped closer and pulled him against himself, bringing the hand on the back of his neck around to his throat. Limiting his air supply. 

“I think you’ll find I can do whatever I damn well please. You’re my property.” 

To his horror, Roger could feel him through the robe and the thin cotton of his own breeches, and the Master made sure that he did, thrusting his half-hard cock against his backside.

“No...” The word came out a despairing whisper, the Master’s hand tight around his throat, and Deacon laughed, releasing his arm. Suddenly there was pressure right over the infected gash on his back, fingers tracing it through the bandage and digging into it. Roger cried out and arched his back, the pain so sharp and overwhelming he saw stars. While he was still reeling from it, a hand was shoved down past his waistband, squeezing his backside roughly.

“Yes. Oh yes. However…” The Master let go of him and all but threw him aside, and Roger stumbled, narrowly avoiding banging his head on one of the posts of the four-poster-bed. “First let’s make sure we’re not interrupted, shall we?” Deacon muttered on his way to the door, while Roger was catching his breath and gradually sank to his knees beside the bed. 

Eyes half-open, his vision swimming, Roger saw the door open and heard Deacon's astonished gasp. 

"What-" 

And then the Master stumbled. Stumbled and fell into the door frame and out of the way, giving Roger a full view of the person who had just stuck a knife into the man who had been about to force him into unspeakable things. 

Never in his life had Roger dreamt of the possibility that he might one day rejoice at the sight of Frederick Bulsara.

\- - -

_It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth_  
_The minor fall, the major lift_  
_The baffled king composing Hallelujah…_

"How old is he?" Ronnie asked over the music. "Bulsara's son." 

The song cut out for a moment, while John quickly replied. "Don't know. Older than me."

As the music continued, he folded the blanket back and took a deep breath, gazing up at the ceiling. In a moment the radio would need cranking again, but maybe it would last just until the end of the song. 

“Is your father going to have him executed?”

John frowned and turned his head towards the window. A cloud had moved in front of the moon, blocking out its silvery light. The truth was that he wasn’t sure what his father would do, once he was awake and fit to give orders again. 

_She tied you to a kitchen chair  
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair…_

The words of the song seemed oddly fitting as John contemplated that execution might not be the only option. There was also another option, which some masters would say was worse than death.

“John? Are you there?”

Drawing a breath, John brought the microphone back up to his lips. “Yeah,” he whispered as quietly as he could while still making sure he would be heard. “And… I don’t know.”

_...lelujah, hallelujah…_

_Hallelujah, hallelujah…_

\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think??


	6. Spark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies!
> 
> I'm back with a new chapter. A long-ass one. I'm making up for my short prologue with gusto! 
> 
> And... today's main character is... all of our new favourite guy - Master Deacon!
> 
> Don't forget to check the tags
> 
> I hope you eh... enjoy?
> 
> (keeping it short because my collab writers are breathing down my neck)

_Click_

Freddie let the smooth silver run between his fingers, staring unseeingly into the scarcely lit corridor outside the cell.

He dug his nail into the small groove between the halves of the medallion, worked it open again with practiced fingers. And closed it.

_Click_

He briefly contemplated looking at his mother’s face, the old photograph hidden away within the piece of jewelry. He hadn’t been able to do it, this far. Hadn’t been able to face his mother, like this.

Freddie swallowed against the thick hopelessness lodged in his throat, slipping the medallion back inside his pocket. 

He had no right to wear his mother’s memory anymore. 

He had failed them. Failed them both.

God, what had he been thinking? Sneaking right up to the upper floor, like that. Of course he shouldn’t have looked for a hiding spot so close to his target. He should have done as Brian suggested, finding a place down in the cellar. The cellar was vast and dark, the perfect place to disappear. He should have hid there, waited, and then with Brian’s help, he could have crafted a proper plan.

Instead, he’d run straight into the man he hated more than anything, and in his panic and foolery, he had stuck his dagger into his abdomen. Not the throat, not aimed at the heart. 

Arthur Deacon had survived. 

Freddie was such a fool. A pathetic excuse for a Master. It was just as well his father was dead already, so he didn’t have to live through Freddie’s ridiculous attempt at revenge. 

Instead of taking back what was his, as had been the plan, Freddie had now lost everything. The only things he owned were the clothes on his body, now damp, dirty and foul-smelling, and his mother’s medallion.

His dagger, his only way of ending this on his own accord, had been taken from him.

_Like you could have, anyway._

_Coward._

He closed his eyes tightly, seeking refuge in the darkness beneath his eyelids. The putrid stench from his own excrement in the corner of the cell, hovered as a constant reminder of how low he’d fallen. In the beginning the smell had been so rich, so overwhelming, Freddie had felt dizzy from it, his eyes filling with tears.

But as time passed, his nose had grown numb, along with the rest of his body. Now it was just part of this, part of his new existence. Part of what he’d become.

How long had it been, anyway? Three days? Seven?

He did now know. Time existed differently, down here.

Soft footsteps broke the heavy silence, making Freddie open his eyes and look up. He met the eyes on the other side of the thick iron bars, recognized the curly hair and the thin but kind face in the dim light of the lanterns.

Brian.

The slave quickly glanced in both directions, before bending down to slide a small wrapped bundle and a cup of water in between the bars. “Here.”

Like the animal he’d become, Freddie crawled over to the food, first reaching for the cup and emptying it in a few, eager gulps.

The lukewarm water was heaven to his dry, swollen throat.

As soon as he’d finished the water he grabbed the bundle, ripping off the cloth wrapped around the two slices of bread. He wolfed it down, desperately trying to quell his roaring hunger, while Brian stayed crouched on the corridor floor, nervously keeping guard.

The slave had been down here three times, since Freddie had been dragged to the cellar. The former majordomo was kept in a cell at the very end of the corridor, far away from Freddie’s. What the poor man was being punished for, Freddie didn’t know. However, he was the reason for Brian coming down once a while, to ask him about numbers and statistics the new majordomo was unable to wrap his head around.

The first time Brian had walked past, he’d kept his head down, hurrying past Freddie’s cell, as if hoping to go unnoticed.

He hadn’t. 

In the end of their hushed, heated argument between the bars of Freddie’s cell, they had come to a sort of agreement.

Freddie wouldn’t tell anyone Brian had helped him inside the mansion, if Brian brought him some extra food and water, every time he came to visit the majordomo.

“Where have you been?” Freddie croaked the moment he’d finished the bread, staring at Brian accusingly.

Brian shifted, quickly gathering the cup and cloth and getting to his feet. He hesitated before leaning closer, so close Freddie could see the haunted look in his eyes and the tremble of his lips as he spoke.

“Master Deacon is… Um, he’s doing well. The infection is petering out, and the wound is healing nicely.”

Freddie stared at him. 

“You. Ah. You didn’t hit any vital organs. Or blood vessels. He did lose a lot of blood though. He’s still weak.”

He had sacrificed all. Had thrown his freedom away. And he hadn’t even managed to severely injure the man who’d executed his father.

“They say... that is, I heard,” Brian looked apologetic, “that he’ll see you tomorrow. On the courtyard.”

Freddie nodded numbly, his fingers reaching into his pocket of their own accord, clenching tightly around the medallion.

“I have to go,” the slave muttered, stepping back and throwing Freddie one last glance. “I’m sorry.”

With that he walked away, leaving Freddie alone in the dark.

Resting his forehead against the cool iron, Freddie took a deep breath. He tried to stifle the panic, the helpless fear rising within him, wrapping around his rapidly beating heart, squeezing his lungs from all sides.

It was alright. He tried to tell himself. It was alright.

He’d finally be allowed to die. He’d finally be able to leave the waking nightmare that had become his life.

It was a _good_ thing. 

_Please, someone, anyone._

_Save me._

\- - -

The stomach acid burned in his throat, tainted the inside of his mouth, the taste and smell so unbearable it made him gag again. And again.

Finally, when he had nothing more to give, Roger stopped, head hanging over the pale porcelain as he gasped for breath.

With shaking hands, he gripped the rim of the toilet and hoisted himself up. He reached for the golden chain hanging from the side of the toilet and pulled, staring despondently as his stomach content was flushed down the pipes. The evidence of his shame erased, one more time.

He walked over to the washbasin, twisted the knob and bent to wash his face as the cold water burst from the tap. 

He washed vomit from his face, rinsed his mouth and spat. The bar of soap laid in its dish on the counter, mocking him with its heavy, sweet scent.

The smell made him gag again.

Suddenly beyond himself with anger, he slapped the dish to the side, the soap bouncing off the wall and sliding away over the floor.

Master Deacon was fine. 

He was up there, in his lavish chamber, resting and biding his strength. 

Meanwhile, Roger was still stuck in this cursed guest room for some reason. Almost a week had passed, and his fever had gone down, his body finally beating the infection. His wound was healing and he was regaining his strength.

But here he was, still. In his own, comfortable room. With the soft bed, the en suite. The fucking soap. It was almost as if they’d forgotten he was here at all. Except for the meals being delivered to him, three times a day. And the guard patrolling the corridor outside, dragging Roger back in every time he tried to venture outside. He was trapped here, in this glorified cell. Even the window had been nailed shut.

It was all such a lie. How could he have been so stupid as to believe this had been gifted to him out of the kindness of his Master?

There was no such thing as kind Masters.

There were bad Masters, and there were worse. 

Master Deacon was worse.

Roger could still feel it, the fingers on his neck, over his throat, down his… And that laugh. 

His new Master had laughed as he’d humiliated Roger. 

He… what if he asked for him, again? What if when he was better, Master Deacon would continue what he’d started?

Breathing fast and shallow, his heart fluttering like a bird in his chest, as if trying to escape the prison of his body, Roger looked up at the mirror over the washbasin.

His own pale, harried face looked back at him. He reached for his hair, tugging painfully hard on the blond strands. With his other hand, he traced the smooth surface of the mirror. 

If he shoved his fist through it… He could have himself a nice, sharp piece of glass. 

He could saw away at his hair, cut it off at the roots, until all that remained was a bloody mess of skin. Or, he could cut open his face, disfigure the sight in front of him until there was nothing left of the boy the new Master apparently wanted.

But… Brian.

What would Brian say?

Brian, who didn’t know. Didn’t know what had happened. 

Because Roger had lied. Had lied right into his best friend’s face. Had told him he’d been taken to the doctor’s office that night. And Brian, who’d been acting weird lately, distracted and anxious, had believed him.

The relieved look on his friend’s face, the way Brian had almost cried when Roger had told him, made Roger feel even worse.

He wouldn’t ever tell anyone. He couldn’t. He’d rather die, than to let his friends know what had happened to him. That he, Roger, the unbreakable, the rebel, the one who never shut up, who never submitted, had been taken to the Master’s chamber.

His cheeks were hot with shame. 

And he hadn’t fought the older man’s advances. Not really. He’d just been standing there, weak, _scared._ He should have tried harder, should have put up more of a fight!

He was supposed to be the tough one. He was supposed to look after the others, look after _Brian._

He would, next time, he promised himself. If Master Deacon ever sent for him again, Roger would be ready. He’d fight, using only his teeth if he had to.

He was _not_ going to take it.

Just as he left the washroom, there was a soft knock on the door. 

Hoping it was Brian, who the guard actually still allowed to visit Roger, once a day, he hurried to open the door. 

It wasn’t Brian. 

It was one of the slaves who’d brought Roger to Master Deacon’s chamber, last time.

Ignoring the urge to slam the door shut in the face of the other slave, Roger scowled at the other man. “What do you want?”

The slave, older than Roger and wearing the simple uniform of the domestic slaves, the Deacon’s green and gold crest sewed into the material over his heart, smiled weakly at Roger.

It didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Master Deacon’s sent for you.” He said softly, breaking Roger’s gaze. “Now.”

“No.” Roger said. “No fucking way. I won’t. You can’t make me go. I refuse!”

There was a slight tremble to his voice and Roger hated himself for it.

The slave sighed tiredly, his deep set, light brown eyes returning to Roger’s. “You have to. You know that. There’s nothing you can do. I’m sorry.”

Roger’s chest hurt. The corridor outside was spinning in front of his eyes as he felt the panic rise up once more. He hadn’t expected the Master to want to see him so soon. Not before Roger had managed to think up some kind of plan. The perverted bastard should still be sick in bed, for fuck’s sake!

“Please,” the slave begged, “if you won’t come by your own choice, I’ll have to call the guard.”

It was the middle of the bloody day. Roger could see a cleaner dusting off the huge mirror hanging on the opposite wall and he heard people talking through the open door to the terrace.

He had no choice. If he started a ruckus now, people would see. They would talk and soon everyone would know. 

That was how Roger found himself following the older slave up the stairs to the upper floor, for the second time in a week. 

His knees trembled as he walked, and he kept his eyes firmly trained on the other slave. Trying to ignore the heavy dread in his gut, the anxious sweat breaking out over his body, he focused on studying the domestic slave. His hair was cropped short but neat and was fair, a few shades lighter than Roger’s own. His shoulders were tense and his posture bad, like he was trying to make himself as small as possible.

He probably was, Roger thought bitterly. 

He could just distract himself for so long however, and soon he was thinking about the Master. He couldn’t possibly be well already… Not after taking a knife to the gut not a week ago. Of course, the attack had been carried out by Frederick Bulsara, notorious for being able to do absolutely nothing right, but still.

Sooner than what he’d liked, they were back before that cursed door. The smooth wooden floor that had been covered in dark blood, last time Roger saw it, was sparkling clean now. On either side of the door stood a guard, long swords in their belts.

“Wait.” One of the guards, a tall, broad man said boredly, stopping the older slave from opening the door. “You need to be searched before you can enter.”

The slave nodded, staring down at the floor as the larger man ran his hands over him, searching for anything hidden. How they thought the poor man would be able to hide anything within his thin uniform, was beyond Roger and he rolled his eyes.

“And you.” The same guard turned to Roger, quickly smoothing his hands over his torso through his shirt and then down his legs.

“All clear.” He returned to his conversation with the other guard. The domestic slave bowed his head before pressing down on the gilded handle, opening the door and walking inside.

Taking a deep breath, forcing himself to be strong, to forget about creeping hands and sadistic laughter, Roger followed the other slave in.

The first thing he saw when he entered the Master’s bedroom was more soldiers, two of them, standing on each side of the room. The second thing he saw, was Arthur Deacon, reclining in his wide four-poster bed, back propped up against several fluffy pillows.

A golden tray rested in his lap. On it was bowls of fresh fruit, chocolate, a pitcher and a glass of red wine.

His long, brown hair fell down his chest in smooth waves and he was holding a leatherbound book, studying the pages closely. Except for his unusually pale complexion, he looked perfectly fine.

“Master.” The domestic slave said quietly, having closed the door behind himself before kneeling next to it.

The Master looked up from his book, his thin lips widening in a smile as he saw Roger standing there. Just to feel his gaze on him, again, made Roger want to throw open the door and run, run until his feet bled. But he refused to show any weakness in front of this monster. He dug his bare feet into the wooden floorboards and glared at the injured Master.

“This is lovely.” Deacon said breezily, turning the book to show Roger a drawing of a bird on a branch. “Don’t you think?”

Roger said nothing.

“The artist is quite talented.” The Master continued, unbothered by Roger’s silence. He flipped another page to show him a drawing of two scullery maids scrubbing pots, next. “But my favourites have to be these.”

His lips spread to show teeth, as his grin widened. He flipped another page to show Roger a man working in the fields, his back turned.

“Strangely familiar, hmm?” The Master flipped another page, showing the same man, resting in the shadow of a tree. Another flip showed the man laughing with Brian.

And then there was a close up, and Roger could see the face of the man, his own face, stare back from the pages, his eyes hard and filled with hatred.

“Tell me… boy.” Deacon closed the book and put it down next to him on the bed. “Was there something between you and Frederick Bulsara?”

Clenching his fists, Roger shook his head. He hated them. Hated them both. He hadn’t known young Master Frederick had filled several pages with Roger’s image. Without asking. 

“Answer me.”

Deacon’s voice shook him to his core and without his permission, goosebumps broke out all over his skin. “No.”

“Mm. Seems like he had a thing for you.” The Master said jovially, lifting his glass to take a large sip of wine. “You must be wondering why you’re here.”

Roger straightened his back and met the other man’s gaze head on. “Yes.”

“Yes, Master.” Deacon corrected him, his eyes crinkling in amusement. “Anyway. I am most disappointed our… rendezvous ended so abruptly last time. Before we’d gotten to know each other at all!”

He was mocking him. Roger pictured himself running up to the bed, grabbing the pitcher and crashing it over the Master’s head. “A pity. Master.” He growled, not even trying to hide the hostility in his voice.

Deacon laughed at that, loud and brash, Roger’s heart freezing in his chest at the sound. 

“You’re a proper little troublemaker, aren’t you.” Those cutting, grey eyes trailed over Roger’s body and it was all he could do to not recoil. “You intrigue me, Roger.” Deacon took another sip of wine. “Therefore, I have decided to make you my personal servant.”

Oh god, please no.

“Do you know what it means being a Master’s personal servant, boy?” Without waiting for an answer, Deacon continued. “It’s a great honour for a slave. It means tending to my chamber and to me, every hour of every day. You’ll get to clean my room, help me bathe, braid my hair.” He tilted his head, licking a stray drop of wine from the corner of his lips as he observed Roger over the rim of his glass. “And pleasure me, of course. If I’m in the mood after a hard day’s work.”

“I’d rather die.” Roger said, pouring every ounce of hate he felt for this man into his gaze. “ _Master_.”

Instead of Deacon reacting in any way Roger had hoped, the man threw his head back and let out another laugh. “I thought you might say that! You’re every bit as stubborn as I’ve heard!” He laughed harder, as if he hadn’t had this fun in ages. In the corner of his eye Roger saw the domestic slave shift nervously.

“Ah, fucking hell.” The Master winced, his hand going to his stomach. “That disgusting little rat…” He grimaced and emptied half the glass in one go. “Where were we… Ah right. You dying.”

He hummed. “That would be too bad. If you choose such a cowardly way out. I thought you had more spirit than that, sweetheart. Anyway, whether you live or die, I still need a new personal servant. You’ve seen my current one?” He gestured lazily towards the thin man kneeling on the floor. “He’s spent. Nothing but a shadow of his former, charming self. No, I need a new one. Something pretty and new to look at in my precious free time. And if it won’t be you, I’ll just have to find someone else.” 

Roger’s blood, which had been boiling at the disrespect shown towards the domestic slave, froze to ice in his veins. 

The master rubbed at his stubbled jaw, gazing out the window as in deep thought. “There’s not many blonds, unfortunately… not any ones with a good fa… Oh!” He brightened up. “There’s that young boy who works in the stables… The blond. What’s his name now again... Ben? Young kid, maybe 14? I think you know…”

“If you touch Ben or any of the others I’ll fucking stab you myself and properly this time.”

The guards gasped and reached for their weapons but the Master only smirked at him. “So that’s a no, then, to taking any of the other slaves as my personal servant… It would seem you’d have to do it after all, wouldn’t it.”

The lingering fear he’d felt for this disgusting, sadistic, _vile_ man was burnt to ashes by his uncontrollable fury. How _dare_ this piece of shit threaten his people?

“I won’t do a fucking thing you want.” He gritted out, voice shaking. “You hear me? I will kill you, you motherfucker. I swear it. I will strangle you with your own bloody braids.”

The guards moved to grab him, a tight fist around each of his arms. Roger spat and fought their grip, the rage fuelling him, urging him on to fight, to hurt. To protect.

“Bring him here.” Master Deacon ordered calmly, his bushy eyebrows raised in fascination as the guards dragged Roger over, kicking and swearing, to the edge of the bed. 

“Listen to me, Roger.” He said, almost kindly. “You’re not going to kill me, no matter how much you want to.”

Roger stopped struggling in the stronger mens’ grip and focused on glaring at the Master. “Mark my words, I fucking will.”

Shaking his head, as if disappointed, Deacon poured himself another glass of wine. “Have you heard of life-bound slaves before, boy?”

Life-bound… The realization hit him like a sledgehammer to the head. A life-bound slave had to follow his or her Master into their next life. When the Master died, the slave was executed, sacrificed and buried at their Master’s feet, to be able to keep serving them in next life. It was the worst possible thing a Master could do to a slave, and while it’d used to be common practice, nowadays it was rare for Masters to take life-bound slaves. 

Roger stopped short. Although, hadn’t Brian said they’d done that at the last estate he’d been? 

He shook his head. It didn’t matter. He’d gladly give his life to get rid of Master Deacon.

“Do it, then.” He sneered. “Bind me to you. It won’t stop me.”

“Oh, I know.” Master Deacon nodded. “That’s why I haven’t bound you to me. No, I picked someone else. Someone level-headed and clever to look after me beyond the grave. I think you know the slave I speak of. Your friend. Brian. I signed the paperworks this morning.”

Roger stared at the Master with wide eyes. He couldn’t be… No… Certainly not. Not Brian. He had to be lying…?

The raw triumph in those soulless eyes told him the Master spoke the truth and it knocked the fight out of Roger more effectively than any trained guards could. He slumped in the guards’ hold, cold horror spreading through his body.

No.

“Master, no.” He said. “Not Brian. Bind me, please. I…”

Deacon smiled. “No. You’d only kill me, wouldn’t you. Your friend is my insurance.” He waved for the guards to let Roger go. They bowed their heads and went back to their positions, leaving Roger alone next to Master Deacon. 

It would be so easy. To reach over and strangle him. To break the glass and slit his throat with one of the shards. This time Roger’s hands were free. He was not feverish, not dizzy. Meanwhile Master Deacon was hurt, and in bed. Roger had the clear advantage.

But Roger was frozen stiff. He felt even smaller, even more hopelessly helpless, than last time. _Terrified._

“You listen close, boy, because I know you have a hard time doing as you’re told.” Master Deacon said, no longer smiling. “You do what I say. If you don’t, I won’t punish you, but Brian. You hear me? You act out of line, he suffers for it.”

Roger squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the angry, frustrated tears back. He nodded once.

“Good.” The Master praised him. “Maybe you’re not a lost cause, after all. Even the wildest horse can be tamed by the right Master, no?”

Roger took a shuddering breath, opening his eyes to look at his new Master. 

He’d thought he knew hate, before. But the feelings he’d felt for the Bulsaras’ were nothing like this.

Deacon beckoned him closer, and Roger stiffly moved to the side of the bed, keeping carefully still as the Master reached for him.

“You’re a very handsome boy.” Deacon ran his fingers over his cheek and down his jaw, a mocking imitation of a caress. “It’s a good thing, too, because your hair’s a bit too dark for my taste. Tell me, are you a virgin?”

Roger balked at the question, pulling away from the touch. “Fuck you.”

The words escaped him before he could stop himself and his heart dropped when he saw Master Deacon’s leer. “N..no wait..”

“Shadow,” Deacon addressed the slave still kneeling by the door, “Tell the majordomo that the slave Brian won’t be allowed supper, tonight.”

Bile gathered at the bottom of Roger’s throat. He was such an idiot. He’d already failed Brian. 

“Let’s try that again.” Master Deacon pushed the tray aside, looking most amused. “Are you a virgin?”

“No.”

The Master clucked his tongue, displeased by his answer. “Your previous Master didn’t have any control of you lot, did he?” He sighed. “How about men, then? Have you slept with any?”

_No…_

“Yes.” Roger lied and felt a small sense of bitter satisfaction when the Master frowned. It was pathetic, that this was the only thing he was still able to control, but still he hung onto it. “I have. Master.”

Master Deacon grunted. “I see. Well, no more of that from now on.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Good boy.” The older man reached for him again, cupping his cheek in his palm, and Roger shuddered. “That was a good talk, huh? Now, give me a kiss.”

Fucking hell.

“If I do, will you give Brian his supper?”

Deacon watched him for a moment, before smiling. “Maybe.”

Alright then… Better to have it over with. Roger grimaced, then steeled himself and leant over to quickly press his lips against Master Deacon’s ones. 

He could feel the older man’s smile against his lips, shut his eyes tightly as his Master tilted his face with the hand on his cheek and deepened the kiss.

Roger tried to not think about it. Not the fingers digging into his skin, the strong, sweet scent of wine and perfume nor the tongue in his mouth. But it was impossible.

Oh god. How was he supposed to do this?

Sooner than he’d expected the Master drew away, a slight frown between his eyebrows.

Roger pulled away quickly, rubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Brian? You’ll give him food?”

“No.” Master Deacon narrowed his eyes at him, taking another sip of wine. “You do not bargain with me, slave. That’s not how this works. I tell you what to do and you do it. It’s really not that complicated.” He took another sip of wine, swirled it in his mouth thoughtfully before swallowing. “Besides, that was a horrible kiss. You taste awful.”

_Good._

The Master turned to his domestic slave, looking disgruntled. “Shadow, haven’t you given the boy a toothbrush for Christ’s sake?”

“No, Master.”

“You’re a waste of space. I told you to make sure he was clean and proper. And you,” he turned back to Roger, pointing one thick finger at his chest. “From now on, make sure you’re clean at all time. It’s of utmost importance for a personal slave. Do you understand?”

Oh, if only he could spit in his Master’s face. Hit his forehead or below his eye, with his tainted, slave spit. Watch it drip down Deacon’s ugly mug…

“Answer me, slave.” Deacon pulled Roger out of his daydreaming.

“Hm? Oh, yes, Master.”

Deacon sighed deeply. He looked less in control now. More tired, annoyed. And the slight wince on his face told Roger that he was feeling that stab wound, after all. 

“You’ll also need to find him something to wear, Shadow. Actually, give him your uniform. You won’t be needing it out on the fields. He can have your bed in the servant quarters, too.” He sat up straighter in the bed, shifting until his back was turned towards Roger. “Now come here and show the wretched boy how to do my hair.”

Before Roger could think too much about wrapping his fingers around the Master’s vulnerable neck, Shadow was beside him.

The older slave hesitated a second, before reaching down to take Roger’s hand in his. Surprised, Roger looked up at the other slave.

Shadow’s eyes were anguished as they stared at Roger, full of grief and guilt. Even if he didn’t say a word, Roger understood him clearly.

_I’m sorry._

The other slave squeezed Roger’s hand tightly in his, and Roger squeezed back. 

He looked on as Shadow pulled his hand back and went up to his Master, gathering Deacon’s long, thick hair between his thin fingers.

There, in the beautiful room, with the lavish bed and the windows overlooking the mountains beyond the estate, Roger swore an oath.

One day, when Brian, Shadow, and all the others were out of harm’s way, he’d kill Arthur Deacon.

\- - -

John almost ran into a couple of slaves on his way to his father’s bedroom. One of them was Harald, his father’s poor personal servant and the other he recognized as the one he’d tried to warn that night.

The grim, haunted look on the young man’s face told John everything he needed to know. He had failed to help yet another one.

Then the slave’s eyes fell on John and widened in recognition. John’s heart sped up in his chest, both with worry and excitement. Would the slave tattle on him?

But the slave didn’t say anything, only nodded hesitantly in greeting, his eyes brightening when John nodded back. 

Then they both let their gazes fall back to the floor, John continuing towards his father’s door while the slave hurried after his companion.

John felt excitement bloom in his chest. He’d done it! He’d finally, _finally_ , established real contact with a slave. He tried to keep the giddy smile off his face, tried to school his features into his regular bored look, as he greeted the guards and opened the door.

His father was alone in the room, resting in bed and gazing out of the window with a forlorn look on his pale face. He turned his head when John entered, the beginning of a smile on his lips, which froze when he saw John’s scowl.

“Son.”

“Arthur.” John had stopped calling him father, years ago. “You wanted to talk to me?”

His father nodded, tapping his fingers slowly over the back of a leatherbound book, resting on his lap. “I have dreamt of reclaiming this estate, most of my life.” He sighed. “It’s a gorgeous place, don’t you think? The tall mountains, the sea waiting just behind. It’s rare, son. There are not many places like this left in this world.”

John had heard all this before.

“I… had not expected it to be this out of control.” His father mused, a deep frown between his eyebrows. “Bomi Bulsara was a fool. A fool who thought he could keep order only with the fists of his guards and the whip. And now… just look at the state of this place. Not one, but _two_ of the girls are pregnant, the young boys and girls are cocky and prideful and the old majordomo refuses to tell me the combination of the safe.”

John raised his eyebrows, impatiently waiting for his father to continue.

“There’s nothing riskier than underestimating a slave.” His father said. “A man who has nothing to lose is always the most dangerous. So, you have to give them something to lose, something to fear. Or they will end you. That’s what happened to my friend, stabbed in the back at his own wedding. And your mother…”

“My mother’s death was an accident.” John interrupted, glaring at his father.

The older Deacon shook his head. “You are a good man, John. A kind one. And I fear, that this world will eat you up alive. You need to grow up, you need to make them respect you.”

“I don’t want to make them respect me.” John muttered. _I want you to respect them._

His father snorted. “You have no choice. If they don’t, if you have no way of controlling them, you’re dead. Why do you think I had the troublemaking blond removed from outside work? Because he’s a threat. Bulsara thought he could break him by beating him. He couldn’t. No one can. Some of them won’t break, you see, no matter what you do to their body. No, it’s the mind you have to attack.” He tapped his fingers over his temple slowly. “They need to be broken before they become a real problem. You have to look out for that kind, John. They are the spark you must smother before it lits the fire.”

John scoffed, shoving his hands in his pockets and glaring at the floor. “Right. Can I go now?”

“Soon. But John, I want you to do something for me.” John could hear the smile in his father’s voice. “Tomorrow, I want you to take Frederick Bulsara’s braids.”

Suddenly cold to the bone, John whipped his head up, staring at his father. “No.”

“Yes. You’re 16. Soon a grown man. It’s time you had your own slave. I’ll help you, of course. Teach you how to handle him.” His father chuckled. “Although, with that one, I don’t think it’ll be very hard…”

“I refuse.” John raised his voice. “I don’t want any slave!”

His father yawned, cosying further back into the pillows. “You will do it. Or I’ll have your sister brought here, to do it instead.” He closed his eyes. “I’m tired. Leave me.”

John gaped at him, trying to find something to say, some way to get out of this. In the end, he just turned on his heel, threw open the door and marched out.

He knew what his father was doing. He would not let Frederick Bulsara die. No, that was far too merciful for the young man’s crime. But he wouldn’t even take the former Master’s son as his own slave, instead gifting him to his young son.

For a proud, free man, it was the worst fate possible. The greatest humiliation.

John practically sprinted to his room, angry tears running down his cheeks. He locked his door behind him and fell face first upon his bed.

He pressed his face into the pillow and screamed, not caring if any passing slaves or guards might hear him.

He hated this. Hated his life. And he was ashamed to pity himself, when he was one of the lucky ones. 

John breathed heavily into his pillow, clutching at it as the fabric grew damp with snot and tears.

What was he going to do? What on all earth, was he, alone in this god forsaken place, supposed to do? 

He inhaled deeply, willing himself to stop crying and lifted his face from the pillow, looking around his spacious room.

_You’re 16. Soon a grown man._

It was true. He was no child anymore.

Maybe it was time. For him to stop waiting, stop hoping for someone else to do something. If he wanted change, _he_ needed to do act.

He thought of the blond man’s fiery, blue eyes in the hallway. Thought of the slaves he’d seen laughing earlier, out on the fields - _laughing_. Thought of the petite young girl he’d met in the courtyard, her brown hair cropped short and her dark eyes glaring at him as he passed her by.

Remembered his father’s body on the floor, blood pooling all around him. The handle of Frederick Bulsara’s silver dagger protruding from his side.

_They are the spark you must smother before it lits the fire._

Or, he could blow air on those sparks, make them grow.

It was not too late. Not here.

He finally had the chance to do something.

And he was going to take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm literally so nervous I'll go vacuum clean and try to get drunk.
> 
> Look at this gorgeous character art Nastally's done for the story!
> 
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185412286@N08/49780812593/in/dateposted-public/)  
> 
> 
> And over to one of my lovely, awesome collab partners <3 (sorry for the mess)


	7. Good Intentions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Toinette93](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toinette93/pseuds/Toinette93) for beta reading! 😘

_It was not too late. Not here._

_He finally had the chance to do something._

_And he was going to take it._

John’s cloak was billowing out behind him as he rushed down the spiral staircase. He didn’t need it for warmth, not on a night like this, but its weight was reassuring. He liked to believe it gave him an air of authority. And while normally that was the last thing he wanted, right now he needed it.

The guard startled from his daydream, his glassy eyes quickly snapping to attention as John rounded the corner and walked straight towards him. It was Carter, John noted with relief, the slow one with the passion for seesaw puzzles. Not one to think too much about what exactly John – who usually avoided the horror of the cells – was doing down here.

Still, John’s heart was in his throat as he greeted the guard with a nod, trying to mimic his father as best as he could: shoulders drawn back, expression bored and distant, as if the thought that someone might question his comings and goings never even occurred to him. 

He needn’t have worried. “Young Master”, Carter said with a small bow as he stepped aside to open the heavy oak doors. 

John was immediately reminded why he didn’t set a foot into the cells if he could avoid it. It didn’t matter whether it was back on the family estate or here, whether in the cellar or a separate building, these places always smelled the same: they reeked of anguish, despair and crushed hopes. It got under his skin, wormed itself into his bones in a matter of seconds. 

How could anyone devise a place like this? How could anyone lock up human beings in these conditions? He understood the need for prisons, but even criminals should be kept clean and allowed to see the sunlight, shouldn’t they?

And most of the people down here weren’t even criminals. They were slaves, punished for the crime of serving the wrong master. John tried not to think about what they were doing to the old majordomo to make him give up the code to the safe. He _couldn’t_ think about it, because if he did, the horrifying images would swamp him and make him want to crawl back into the safety of his room. 

Right now, he had to focus. 

He came to a halt in front of the one cell that did actually contain someone who committed a crime. The man who tried to murder his father. He should feel outraged at that, shouldn’t he? Have some deeply ingrained reaction against the man who attacked his family? 

John couldn’t even see him properly in the flickering light of the lantern. He was just a darker shadow in the darkness of the cell, curled up against one wall, lying on the thin blanket that was his only comfort. 

Freddie Bulsara. Who should be John’s sworn enemy. Who he was supposed to claim as his slave the next day.

John stood there, frozen for a minute, not knowing what to say. It was ridiculous, but he just couldn’t make up his mind about how to break the silence. With the situation so dire, it should be trivial, a laughing matter. But somehow...

“If you’ve come to bring me some more scraps, I’m not interested.” 

The voice sounded so cold and haughty that for a moment John was convinced one of his father’s men must have followed him down here. 

But there was no one here except John and the shadow in the cell.

The edges of the package John kept hidden away under his cloak – cheese, bread, some grapes – pressed into his side. He stood up a little taller, although Bulsara hadn’t moved to look at him. 

“I’m not here for that”, he said and tried not to wince at how reedy his voice sounded in comparison. 

Bulsara startled and pushed himself into a sitting position. Whoever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t John. 

John set the lantern down on the floor so the light wasn’t in his eyes so much. In the glint he could make out gaunt features, a protruding nose and teeth, dark eyes made to look even bigger by the shadows underneath them. And the braids. 

Young Bulsara’s hair had to be greasy after a week without washing, but it was still falling over his shoulders in neat braids. Perhaps that was how he whiled away the long hours down here: Making sure he looked every inch the slave master he used to be. Just like his father, John thought. Never a hair out of place. 

But he still had hope. Maybe Bulsara wasn’t like that after all. The voice, the hair… who knew what John would be like after a week down here? “I’ve come here to talk to you”, John said. “Tomorrow you will be…”

“Go away.” That imperious tone of voice again, so used to being obeyed, even now. No one spoke to John that way – no one except his father. 

“No”, John said, his own voice rising a bit. “No, I _won’t_ go away, because this is…”

There was a flash of movement and suddenly Bulsara’s face was only inches away from the bars. John almost took a step back, but caught himself just in time. He wasn’t scared. Not of the man inside at least. There was no reason to be scared. 

“I know what is going to happen tomorrow”, Bulsara fumed, his stale breath gusting into John’s face, making his stomach turn. 

“Well, then you should know better than waste your time arguing with me.”

Bulsara looked taken aback at that, like had no idea how to respond.

“I wanted to speak to you”, John said quickly. “Before… you know.” He cleared his throat. “Man to man.” 

That was the plan. Find out what kind of man Freddie Bulsara was. Whether he could be an ally in all this. When his father talked of the Bulsaras, he made them sound like fools who only managed to stay on top because of their greed and trickery. Somehow, John thought that if his father hated them, that meant they were good people. 

That hope had been shattered the moment he saw the blond slave who’d been flogged to within an inch of his life. But sons didn’t have to be like their fathers. If there was one thing in the world he believed in, it was that. 

A sneer twisted Bulsara’s features. “Man to man”, he repeated. He drew his head back and looked down his bony nose at John. It shouldn’t be possible, given that John was a few inches taller, but somehow he still did it. “You call yourself a man and you can’t even say the word. Execution.” He raised one eyebrow. “Isn’t it a bit late for children to be up?”

“I am not a child! I’m sixteen!” John belatedly realised that didn’t made him sound very grown up. He tried to find his composure. “I’m John Richard Deacon”, he said, drawing himself up to his full height.

Bulsara didn’t look surprised. Of course he didn’t: In his green cloak with the gold fastenings, John’s identity couldn’t be much of a mystery. “I tried to murder your father”, Bulsara said, a calculating expression on his face. “Have you come to avenge him?”

The derision in his voice – as if it was unthinkable that John might have it in him – made hot, sharp anger bubble up inside him. He was here to offer this man his hand in friendship. Or at least in cooperation. But all he got back was mockery. His hands balled into fists. 

John took a deep breath to steady his nerves. This was too important to get distracted. “He won’t execute you”, John said, proud at the steadiness of his voice. 

“Of course he will”, Bulsara said. “You don’t expect me to betray my father and kneel, do you?”

“He won’t”, John repeated. His words must have come out with enough conviction that something like insecurity flashed over Bulsara’s features. Or was that relief?

“I see. So he will reinstate me as rightful Master of the estate, throw himself at my mercy for the murder of my father, hand over the slaves he unlawfully seized and pay for the damage he did to my property?”

So that was what he wanted. To be reinstated as a slave master. Of course, the chances that the younger Bulsara might be a rebel in disguise had been slim. But somehow John still had hoped against reason to find a kindred spirit. 

“You will be made my slave”, he said. He pretended not to notice the small part of him that enjoyed putting the arrogant sod down a peg. 

Freddie scoffed. “I won’t be your slave, boy.” 

John looked down at the floor and bit his lip. “You won’t be given the choice your father had”, he said. Now that he was thinking of what awaited them tomorrow, all trace of enjoyment had gone from him. “They will _make_ you kneel.”

“Never.”

“Try to stand when the tendons in your heels have been cut.”

Even in the darkness of the vaulted cells, John could see the blood draining from Freddie’s grimy face. He felt sick to the stomach. He didn’t want to wield Bulsara’s fate over him like that. It was what his father would do just to see him squirm 

“That… that is not how these things are done”, Freddie said. 

“You tried to murder my father! You _stabbed_ him. Do you really think he will honour some outdated code of conduct?” John shook his head at Bulsara’s naiveté.

The muscles in Bulsara’s jaw were working as he took a few steps back from the bars and sat back down against the wall. 

“Why are you here”, he asked after a minute, and for the first time he sounded as tired as he looked. 

“I don’t want a slave”, John said. 

“Well, I won’t _be_ your sla…”

“Have you been listening to a word I’ve been saying”, John hissed, fighting to keep his voice under control. “My father has broken better men than you.” He stepped a little closer. “But there might be a chance. If you accept your fate, if you play along and…”

“...and be your pet? I’d rather die than let that happen to me.” 

John stared at him. He was glad for the bars, because he was fighting a serious impulse to walk in there and sock Bulsara right in the face. Maybe that would bring him to his senses. “You will _not_ die. He won’t let you! He will do all sorts of things to you, but in the end you will submit. The only thing you can decide is in what state.” 

What John wasn’t saying was that it wouldn’t be his father doing all these things. He would make John do them. And if John refused, at least he’d be made to watch. Or worse, get Julie and force her to do it. And all hyperbole aside, John would do anything to spare her.

Bulsara’s face was unreadable. “In that case I suggest you save your pity for later.”

John couldn’t believe it. “But I’m offering you…”

“Leave me now. As you said: I don’t want to waste my last night.”

Oh god, that man was a nightmare. An arrogant, conceited nightmare. And they said John was stubborn. “Come on, don’t be stupid. I don’t want this anymore than you. I can help you. Look!” John opened his cloak and set down the package of food close to the bars. His peace offering. Maybe he should have started with that. “I’ll help you, if you help me. Together we can...”

“Open the cell then. Hand me your dagger. Order the guards out of the way.” Bulsara wasn’t pleading. He wasn’t ordering either. He was laying out terms. 

Just for a second John considered it. It seemed so simple. And if there was one man who deserved to die it was his father. _(But could you stand by and watch? Could you deliver him in cold blood? Do you remember his hand on your shoulder when you showed him the first kite you built all by yourself? His voice glowing with pride as he praised your work?)_

And of course, Bulsara hadn’t proved himself a very capable assassin so far. 

But even if he succeeded, then what? John was not yet 21, so his father’s second-in-command would take over in his stead. A cruel man who shared many of his father’s tastes. And besides, Bulsara clearly expected to take over himself, to be reinstated as Master. 

The image of the blond boy, beaten to within an inch of his life crossed John’s mind again. The Bulsaras were not kind Masters. 

And damn it all to hell, even if they were, the world John was fighting for didn’t have any Masters at all, kind or no! 

“Thought so.” Bulsara’s face turned into a grimace of contempt at John’s indecision. “Go back to bed, boy.” 

John shook his head. “You’ll regret it”, he said, and although he was the Young Master and Bulsara was already a slave in all but name, a man who had been rotting away in a cell stinking of his own shit for a week, he felt small as he said it. 

He hesitated for a moment, waiting for a sign, _any_ sign that Bulsara would at least talk to him about what could be done. But there was nothing. 

Time, John thought on his way up to his chambers. What he needed was just a little more time. Time to connect with the slaves here. The blond his father had taken a liking to. His friend, the tall, serious one. The dark-haired girl with the fiery eyes. But how could he make them trust him within only one night? When no one here had any idea who he really was or what he wanted? This spark that was in the air, it was fragile, something to be nourished carefully until it could burst into flame. 

But how would they ever trust him if he was publicly claiming a slave for himself? 

Although... 

That slave would be their former master. Someone who would have punished them, humiliated them in ways small and big all their lives. John still cringed when he remembered how carelessly cruel he’d been as a child, when he didn’t yet understand what one casual accusation, one shattered vase so easily blamed on a domestic slave, would mean for them.

Many might not mind Bulsara’s fate so much. Many might secretly enjoy seeing him beaten, following orders. _John’s_ orders.

John hated that thought. He didn’t want to think like that, to act like people – even people he despised – were nothing but pawns in a game. 

But if everyone else thought that way, maybe he had to start doing so as well if he ever wanted to make a difference. Maybe that’s what being grown-up was all about. 

* * *

When Brian finally found Roger, he was in the servant’s quarters next to the kitchen. He sat with his back against the wall, staring into an untouched bowl of groats in his lap, his mind seemingly miles away. 

“Rog!” Brian didn’t even try to keep the relief he felt from his voice. 

Roger looked up. Brian couldn’t read the expressions that flickered over his face at lightning speed until finally it settled in that familiar smile he adored so much. “Hey! Come to admire my new lodgings?” Roger waved an arm around, inviting Brian to look his fill. 

“Where have you been?” Brian walked over to the bed, habitually checking Roger for signs of new injuries as he went. “I wanted to bring you a new batch of salve for your back but you were gone and…”

But Roger waved him off. “Ah, my back’s good as new again, don’t you worry.” 

“Of course I worry.” And with Roger, there was always a reason. 

Roger smiled and it almost looked wistful. It was a curious expression, one Brian had rarely seen on his friend. Roger patted the mattress next to him. 

Brian sat down, revelling in the opportunity to get off his feet for a moment. “So where on earth have you been? And what are you doing here?” The rooms in the servant’s quarters were tiny and windowless and smelled of whatever was prepared in the kitchens, but each had its own straw mattress and a washbowl and jug. It’s where the higher-ranking domestic servants slept, those with access to the Master’s private chambers. It was miles above the damp, overcrowded slave’s quarters downstairs. 

“I, er... I got a new job, it seems.” Still, Brian didn’t know what to make of Roger’s expression. Usually, he could read every single one of Roger’s moods on his face. Now he was lost. 

“A new job?” Maybe they put him to work in the kitchens? But common kitchen slaves didn’t sleep up here.

Roger hesitated minutely. Then he leaned in and whispered conspiratorially: “They made me Master Deacon’s personal slave, can you imagine? Me!” 

Oh god, please no. Not that. Brian’s stomach turned to ice as a dozen images, one more horrible than the last, flooded his mind. 

“I’ll be able to come and go as I please, maybe even pilfer some money!” There was a gleeful grin on Roger’s face now, as if he couldn’t believe the stupidity of his new masters. 

He didn’t know, Brian realised. Roger had no idea what this meant. Of course not, he’d been with the Bulsara’s ever since he was a child. He didn’t know the implications of his new position. He thought a flogging was as bad as it could get. 

“Roger…”

“It might take a couple of months before he really trusts me, but then we can put it all in place and you can get out of here and-”

“Roger, stop. You-”

“What?” Roger stared at him, his blue eyes wide and a little wild. 

Brian didn’t know what to say. Roger looked so guileless, so excited. A bit manic perhaps, probably thinking up all sorts of mad escape plans. How could Brian possibly tell him what awaited him? 

And what if he was wrong? He had been wrong before, that night when Freddie Bulsara stabbed Master Deacon. He’d thought up the most horrible scenarios, but in the end, Roger had only been taken to see the doctor (whose useless medicines had made him sick for days afterwards, but that was still better than what Brian had imagined). 

What if Brian burdened Roger with all those dreadful thoughts and they turned out to be baseless? How could he do that to his friend?

But the question was: Why would any Master who wasn’t touched in the head choose Roger – who was fresh from a whipping for stealing his former master’s horse, for heaven’s sake – as their personal slave? Roger, who couldn’t be bothered to learn how to fold a simple shirt, let alone take care of a Master’s garments? 

“But… why you?” Brian was hoping against hope that there was an innocent explanation for all this after all. 

Roger shrugged. “Said he heard about how much I despised Old Bulsara. Found it amusing, apparently. Wanted me to tell him everything about Stella and how I put one over him.”

That didn’t sound very convincing. “And then?”

Roger took up his bowl of groats again and stirred the cold mass inside with his spoon. Pea and barley, it looked like. “Then I spent two hours learning to braid his fucking hair.” He held up a hand and waggled his fingers. “Worse than pruning rose bushes, I tell you.” 

Brian didn’t know what to make of all this. “So. How is he, then. Master Deacon.”

A spoonful of groats paused halfway to Roger’s mouth. “A prick”, Roger said after a beat. “They all are.” He put let the spoon fall into the bowl and looked up at Brian. “Did you have any supper?”

“I wasn’t hungry”, Brian mumbled. He’d been too sick with worry to even think about getting his evening ration. 

“Here, you take it then. Cook hasn’t found the salt box tonight.” He handed Brian the bowl. 

But Brian set it aside. Something wasn’t right here. It just didn’t add up. And Freddie’s words about Master Deacon’s proclivities… 

“What’s the matter with you”, Roger asked, poking his shoulder. “Jealous that I got the cushy job for once?”

“Just…” No he couldn’t do it. “Just worried that you’ll let your mouth run off. Master Deacon might stop finding it amusing after the novelty has worn off.”

Roger scowled. “Well. Then I’m just going to be sent back to the fields. It’s not like I’m not used to it.”

Brian didn’t answer. He didn’t want to seem paranoid, but he didn’t like this development one bit. 

Or was it just because it meant Roger wouldn’t be sleeping next to him anymore, the brutally honest voice at the back of his head asked him. That maybe he wouldn’t need Brian to look after him as much anymore.

“Bri.” Roger’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. “This might be the chance we’ve been waiting for. To get out of here.”

 _We._ Despite all his misgivings, the word was like a sip of honeyed tea on a rainy day. 

“Just be careful, alright”, Brian said. “Don’t rush anything. They’ll be watching you.”

The night gong rang out. Roger patted his shoulder once more. “They’ll lock up the slave’s quarters soon. Better go now.” He pointed at the bowl again. “Sure you don’t want that?”

“No, I’m fine.” Brian got up. He couldn’t quite look away from Roger. Something told him to stay, to wrap himself around his friend and fight to the death anyone who came near him.

But then, hadn’t he always felt like that?

He turned towards the door, then stopped and looked at Roger again. “Rog, if anything... if anything bad was going on, you’d tell me, right? You know I’d help you? No matter what it was.”

Roger smiled indulgently. It was that smile that was just a heartbeat away from an eye roll. “Of course I would. Now go before you’re missed.”

Brian nodded and made his way downstairs, towards the slave’s quarter, deep in thought. 

He didn’t see how Roger rolled onto his side and pounded the mattress with his fists, face contorted in a silent scream. 

* * *

They were coming for him. The footsteps of a troop of guards echoed down the dank corridor to the cells. In all his time down here, there had never been a whole troop. 

They’d make him a slave. Worse, a _boy’s_ slave. A training tool the future master could cut his teeth on. A cautionary tale. A toy to be broken. 

He should stand and fight. He should let them do their worst. Show them what he was made of, that he would not submit as long as there was yet a spark of life in him. 

_A cruel blade slicing through his heels. Blood spurting out of his broken mouth. The tail of the whip biting into his flesh until he his voice was too hoarse to scream._

He’d barely been able to keep his composure when the Deacon boy had come to threaten him. Wouldn’t it be less of a humiliation if he knelt, but with his head held high? If he said those words of bondage, but with cold contempt in his voice instead of fear? 

The shine of a lantern flickered down the hallway. Close now. They were so close. He gripped the silver pendant around his neck tightly in his fist. 

How could he even be thinking like this? He’d be a _slave_. He’d kneel to a usurper. He’d give up his claim. His sister’s claim. And the entire household would watch. 

_His breeches soaked in urine, his face stained with tears while he scrabbles for mercy, crawling on his hands and knees like an animal._

But he’d live. He could bide his time. He could try to get in touch with his father’s allies, with his extended family. Make sure Kash was alright. 

_His braids being cut off with his own dagger and wielded triumphantly in the air._

Young Deacon _was_ just a boy after all. Wet behind the ears, with strange ideas. Easily influenced. If Freddie won his trust...

 _Serving his breakfast, cleaning his chamberpot, being served up as amusement for his friends, abused in god knows how many ways. Everyone knew what the Deacons were like._

He could search for his sister. He could preserve the memory of his parents. He wouldn’t be doing it for himself. 

The footsteps stopped. Heavy keys clanged against each other. 

_Mother forgive me. Father…_ He didn’t dare finish the thought.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to summon the will and the strength to face what lay before him. 

The metal hinges of the door creaked. They were here.


	8. Tidings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my wonderful co-creators for letting me be a part of this! ❤️
> 
> Please do mind the tags, and read safely!

Freddie was curled up in a small ball, lying on his side on the narrow cot. He had been unceremoniously dumped there, left to his pain. Maybe it would hurt a little less if he didn't move. If he tried to stay as still as possible. Only a flimsy curtain separated him from the corridor, and from the rest of the world. He could hear footsteps and low voices, and prayed no one would think to check in on him. He knew that he had been granted much more privacy than most people in his situation, but it was difficult to feel lucky at that moment.

Everything hurt. Nothing in his life up to this point had prepared him for this pain. Not even the week spent in the stinking cell made it easier to comprehend the reality of his situation. Neither did his imaginings of revenge or of noble death. If anything, those thoughts seemed faintly ridiculous, now. And not even the shock of seeing his father killed, not the night he had spent in the woods, nothing was a match for this. It felt like every bone in his body ached. Everything, everywhere. At least the nosebleed had stopped. But the gash across his forehead was stinging as badly as ever. And everything else. It hurt. And yet, he was better off than he could have been.

He swallowed, with some difficulty, and squeezed his eyes shut. It still wasn't enough to banish the images of the majordomo, lying in a pool of his own blood, beaten and broken. And that scream. It still echoed in his ears. Freddie curled up tighter, bringing his hands up to his ears in an effort to block the memory of the sound out. But that meant that he was touching the uneven edge of his newly chopped hair, which was almost even worse. He dropped his hands, instead bringing them close to his face, trying to calm down, trying to not think about anything at all.

A new voice drifted in from the corridor outside. Freddie couldn't help but listen.

"Roger?" A low whisper. "Are you awake?"

There was a rustle, and the sound of a curtain drawn back, but no answer, at least not one that he could hear.

 _Roger_. A flash of blue eyes, filled with hate, flitted through his mind. And then the recollection of the same eyes earlier that same day, this time a curious look in them. Triumph mixed with pity, perhaps. Freddie shuddered.

"Can I come in? No, I'm not leaving you. You know that. Don't try to argue with me."

There was a murmur. He couldn't distinguish the words. A high, raspy voice was saying something, and the other answered, but so quietly that all Freddie could hear was a hum. But it sounded like the two voices were having some kind of an argument. 

"No, don't, Roger. Shh. It's all right, it's going to be all right," the first voice then said, soothing, just a bit louder than before. "Listen, how about it if I sang to you? Just for a moment?"

Another murmur.

"No, they won't. I won't be. None of them come this way anyway, not at this time of the night. It'll be fine, you'll see."

And then the first voice started singing softly.

_"Blackbird singing in the dead of night…"_

Freddie closed his eyes again. Perhaps the old song made things a little easier, even though it wasn't meant for him. He remembered old Clara singing that. He remembered searching for chords to go with the melody on the piano. In the time before.

_"Take these broken wings and learn to fly…"_

Lying there, facing his new, painful reality, Freddie felt a new kind of determination slowly taking hold of him. The worst had already happened, after all. Something very different than his fevered imaginings during his week in the cells was growing inside him now. He was going to survive. Somehow. He would put everything that had been behind him, for now. He would become someone else, someone new, and that new someone would do whatever he had to in order to learn how to live on.

* * *

There was a steady buzz of static. John turned a knob minutely, adjusting the reception. And then a voice finally came through.

"Birdman? Come in, Birdman."

"I'm here. Read you loud and clear. Birdman here."

"Not very big on sticking to protocol tonight, are we?" The voice on the other end of the crackling connection scoffed.

"Crystal? Is that you?"

"Yes, this is Crystal speaking."

There was another brief burst of static, and then the connection cleared again.

"Do you read me, Birdman? This is important."

"Go ahead. I'm listening."

"Good. Here it is. I have a message for you from Miami. It's important. Listen: we're moving in. Stage one is a go. You need to be prepared."

* * *

_The soldiers had marched Freddie out from his cell, and he was half pushed, half dragged to the platform in the middle of the courtyard. The same place where his father had been killed. No, murdered. The symmetry and the irony of it didn't escape him._

_There was another man on the platform already, swaying in an alarming fashion and frankly looking like his legs might give out any moment. With a start, Freddie recognised his father's old majordomo. But the man in front of him was a far cry from the competent, placid administrator Freddie remembered. Now he looked ill, and properly so. His face was pale, and there were ugly welts on his bare arms, and a bloody gash on one of his legs, visible where the fabric of his trousers had been torn. He wasn't wearing any shoes. What had they done to him?_

_A pair of soldiers mounted the platform, along with a man Freddie thought was Deacon's second-in-command, judging by the cut of and the decorations on his formal green cloak. The man had a narrow, unpleasant face, and he looked satisfied as he eyed the two prisoners._

_"We are here today to see justice done," he proclaimed to the crowd. It looked like the entire estate had gathered to watch. There was a hush in the air, expectant, not entirely pleasant._

_The second-in-command indicated the majordomo._

_"This man has resisted his lawful masters, obstinately and repeatedly refusing to follow direct orders. And for his disobedience, we have judged that he will suffer."_

_Now there was a rustle in the courtyard. People were shifting restlessly, muttering, whispering. Freddie had never experienced anything like the noise of that crowd. They weren't happy with what was happening. The majordomo was liked and respected, but the masters doling out the punishment clearly weren't._

_But there was nothing anyone could do about it. A blade gleamed in the sunlight. And then the scream cut through the air._

_The reaction of the crowd was visceral. An emptiness, a complete silence, as though all the air had been sucked out of the courtyard. Freddie quaked._

_"This is justice. This is what happens to those who do not obey."_

_Still there was no reaction from the crowd. Only a few moments had passed, but the majordomo lay on the platform, in a steadily growing pool of blood, unmoving. Freddie didn't know if he was still alive. Perhaps he was._

_"And then the other one. This man, Frederick Bulsara, is known to the majority of you."_

_This was it._

_"He is guilty of multiple transgressions against the proper order of things."_

_Of course, Freddie realised. They couldn't very well admit in public that the Deacon had been injured – that he had managed an attempt on his life, however botched, could they? That would make them seem weak. He wondered, briefly, if there was a way to use that small piece of knowledge to his advantage, but dismissed the thought quickly. Freddie scanned the crowd, but he couldn't see Deacon anywhere. Maybe he had been a little intimidated by the attack, after all._

_"Bulsara. Hear your sentence. For what you have done, from this moment on, you will be a slave in the Deacon household. You will obey your masters in everything, and be bound by the laws that govern all slaves. Now: will you kneel?"_

_"Never."_

_Freddie didn't know where he found the determination to grit out the word. Or when he had decided that he would do so. But say it he did. They couldn't make him submit to slavery. Things would be easier for him if he did, if he wouldn't need to be forced into it. But he wouldn't do it._

_"I ask you again: will you kneel?"_

_Freddie stayed silent. So it was as the Deacon boy had said. They weren't going to offer him the dignity of death, but were going to make an example of him._

_Suddenly, a sharp slap across his face sent him reeling. There was a flash of pain. He felt blood dripping from his nose, and then something hot trickled down his forehead, too. A searing pain as he was hit on the back._

_He went down, suddenly, as a blow landed on the back of his knees. He was dragged upright again, relentlessly, and placed on his knees._

_"I ask you once more: Will you submit? Or will you be made to?"_

_This time, Freddie pursed his lips, stubbornly. They couldn't make him utter the words. No matter what. He wouldn't become a slave willingly. He wouldn't. Freddie looked around him, and found that the mood of the crowd had changed, and every eye in the courtyard was fixed on him. The faces around him were expectant. Some even looked mocking, or triumphant. No one was going to stand up for him. Where the crowd had sided with the majordomo before, it was clear that they were not on his side. Never had he felt as helpless and alone as at that moment, when he realised the depth of the contempt and the fear that the slaves held their masters in._

_Throughout it all, he squeezed the medallion in his hand. It felt cold, but it gave him something to focus on. He hated the thought of it, too, ending up in Deacon's paws. His dagger was long gone. But if he only could help it, he wouldn't let them have the medallion too._

_There was more pain, across his chest, and then on his back again. At some point, he thought his mind must have blanked out and blessedly spared him the worst of it._

_Blearily and with difficulty, he blinked his eyes open again when his head was grabbed, roughly. He looked once more at the crowd. In the middle of it, his eyes met a familiar blue gaze, looking at him intently._

_Then Deacon's second-in-command was speaking again._

_"Now look here, pup. This is how it's done," he said. There was a glint of a sharp knife at the edge of Freddie's vision._

_Right in front of him, the face of the young Deacon boy swam into focus. His eyes were open wide, either in horror or in fascination, Freddie couldn't tell which._

_The grip on his scalp was painful. But the shock of the sound of the knife meeting his hair, and then seeing his braids fall to the ground, one by one, still made him almost faint. Even though he had known it was coming. The last thing he remembered was the boy lifting his braids up high for everyone to see._

* * *

The afternoon had been uncomfortably muggy, and it felt like there might be a thunderstorm moving in. Rubbing his aching head unobtrusively with the heel of one hand, Brian stepped cautiously into the kitchen. Cook had a nasty temper and a sharp tongue, and he didn't like anyone being in his domain if they weren't supposed to be there. But this was a special case, and Brian had decided to brave it. He still looked around carefully, but when he spotted Cook on the other side of the wide room, listening to something that one of the kitchen slaves was saying, he breathed a little easier. 

Old Clara was sitting on a low stool in a corner. She was becoming frailer with every passing year, but she was still a force to be reckoned with in the household. It looked like she was sorting through a basket filled with some kind of root vegetables. A dark-haired girl was crouched in front of her. 

"How are you today, Clara? Is the arthritis still bothering you?"

Clara and the girl both looked up at him. Clara smiled.

"It's not so bad now, thank you, Brian. As long as I'm sitting down it's all right. The liniment helps a little."

The girl straightened up.

"Dom? You sent word?" Brian asked her. "You wanted to talk to me?"

"Yes," she said. "Thank you for coming." She fidgeted, seeming to have trouble knowing where to start.

Brian was at a loss. While he was on reasonably familiar terms with all of the slaves on the estate, he had never really talked with Dom before, and he didn't know what to expect of this meeting.

"I wanted to ask you," Dom began. "I know you and… you and Roger are close, aren't you?"

She looked up, meeting Brian's eyes with her own dark ones. He swallowed and nodded. The anxiety and fear for Roger that he always carried with him these days made him feel a little dizzy.

"Where is he? I haven't seen him for days. Not since… you know."

Brian sighed.

"He's been taken in as the Deacon's personal slave. He's in the servants' quarters."

"Oh, no, that's bad news," she said. "Is he… is he all right?"

Brian shook his head. "I don't know, really. I don't think so. But you know him. He doesn't want to talk about it. He refuses to, actually."

Dom looked stricken. "That's terrible. I had no idea… oh no. We need him, Brian. Now more than ever. It's going to happen. We're going to do it. Can you get word to him?"

She made a furtive gesture, clasping her hands quickly in front of her.

Clara made a disapproving sound beside them. "You want to be careful where you talk about that kind of thing, my girl. You had better not let the masters hear you. Particularly not now, with the new family still not settled on the estate. It will only lead to grief."

Dom shook her head, determined.

"I am being careful, Clara! But we must do something! I can't just let it go and submit. I won't. I must try. _We_ must try. Don't we, Brian?"

Brian sighed. "Yes, I suppose you're right. I'll tell him whatever you want me to."

Clara tsk'd again. 

"Mark my words, it will only end in pain. You'll regret it. Don't you think we've tried before? That we haven't tried many times? Over and over again. It never leads to anything."

"No, but this time we are going to make a difference," Dom insisted. Clara shook her head. 

"Didn't you learn anything from what happened to the old majordomo? That's the price you pay for disobedience. There he still is, in his little cell, slowly dying, and there's nothing anyone can do for him now. And all because he wouldn't give up some code to a safe. Much good it does him. Much good it does anyone."

Brian glanced up and around the kitchen, but it seemed like no one was near them, or paying them much attention. He turned back to Clara and Dom.

"I don't want to get Roger into any more trouble. But the majordomo… didn't anyone try to offer him… you know? A way out of his suffering?" He spoke as softly as he could, knowing that if someone overheard, his words would be enough to earn him a lashing. 

Clara tutted. "Of course they did. We've been here before, Brian dear. But he won't hear of it. And that's the end of it."

Brian's shoulders sagged. Dom shifted impatiently.

"I wish we could help him," she said. "But I need to tell you. There's something big coming, we all know it. That's what they're saying. You know, _them_. We all need to be ready for it and we need to act when they do. And we need Roger for it. Everyone respects him. He's got to be there, to make sure everyone pulls together. Will you tell him?"

"Yes. Yes, of course I will," Brian said. "When will it happen, do you know? And how?"

* * *

After his initial terror had settled, Freddie began to discover that there was a certain camaraderie that existed among the slaves. As he limped slowly and painfully through the corridors of his old home, his forehead and back still hurting, avoiding eye contact where he could, he found that it was cautiously, a tiny bit at a time, extended even to him. There were small kindnesses, small ways of making the everyday horror of it a little more bearable. He learned that the slaves all looked out for each other, and that the front they presented to the masters was quite different from the reality when they weren't there.

He learned that there were a thousand small ways of resisting and of holding your own. Blank looks, blank expressions. The blankness masked all emotion, and made it impossible for the masters to reach you. Doing what you were told to do, but a little slower than you would otherwise have done it, or doing it a little sloppily, not quite as well as you could.

And he learned that even though there were rules, countless harsh rules and even harsher punishments for neglecting them, if you knew the right way to go about it, if you were careful enough, all of the slaves and most of the soldiers would turn a blind eye.

"Yes, Master. I don't know, Master. I wasn't there. It wasn't me, Master."

Always avert your eyes. Never contradict the masters, and never admit to anything.

He learned things about the other slaves, as well. He knew, now, that Brian sneaked in to the servants' quarters every night, to sit with Roger at least for a little bit, usually just before the curfew. Sometimes he sang, and sometimes they just spoke in low tones.

Freddie knew that Roger was aware of who was lying in the cubby-hole next to him, but they had never talked. If they happened to cross paths sometime during the day, or in the early morning, dragging themselves up from their cots, they didn't speak. Roger turned his head, and looked the other way, perhaps pretending that he hadn't seen him at all.

And then, one night, Roger was hauled off somewhere. Freddie woke up at the noise, staring with unseeing eyes into the darkness, not knowing what was happening. He awoke again from an uneasy slumber when Roger was deposited back onto his cot, sometime later. He listened to the footsteps departing, and then to the snuffling sounds and hiccupping breaths drifting in from the other side of his curtain. He reached his hand to touch the medallion, which he had hidden in the straw of his thin mattress. He wasn't sure how he had managed to hold on to it in all the mayhem, but there it still was. For a long time, he listened to the broken sounds and small whimpers coming from the cubby-hole next to his, heart hurting.

* * *

The sweat was running into his eyes and making them sting. The heat still showed no sign of letting up, despite it being already late September. Freddie tried to school his features into blankness. He had been summoned to Master Deacon's bedroom, and a number of horrible scenarios were going through his mind on the way upstairs. All the stories he had heard of the Deacons and of their… tastes, and his own complete helplessness in their hands at the moment. And this was going to be the first time he came face to face with Arthur Deacon, after that fateful night. But the scene that awaited him was something different altogether. 

The afternoon sun didn't reach into this part of the house, and it was mercifully cooler inside the room. Freddie breathed a sigh of relief at that, at least. There were two soldiers flanking the door on both sides, casting a stern eye over the pleasant, airy space. It was clear that no threat to Deacon's well-being would be tolerated this time. The young Deacon boy – John, Freddie remembered – was sitting on a chair near the window, looking out at the orchard, and the mountains in the distance. Master Deacon was pacing, and Roger – of all people! – was standing off to one side, face impassive, closed off. _Well, that explains some things,_ Freddie thought, with a stab of horror.

"Finally," Deacon barked. "You took your time."

Freddie cast his eyes down, not saying anything. He took his place next to Roger, not daring to stand too close to him.

"Son," Deacon said, and Freddie took the opportunity to glance at the boy quickly, furtively. The younger Deacon looked startled, turning his eyes to his father.

"I've told you before that you need to learn how to be a real Master. I've indulged you for long enough. You're going to be taking care of this whole estate soon enough. You need to start learning. I noticed you didn't even cut his braids, there, in the end." He pointed at Freddie by lifting his chin in his direction. 

John muttered something unintelligible.

"Speak up, boy," Deacon snapped. "I won't have my son mumbling like some wastrel. And I won't have you talking back. You will know your place. Just like everyone else on this estate. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," John said, sullenly.

"He's your personal slave now. That means you're going to use him. And I won't have you neglecting your duties any longer. For a start, it's time your hair was done properly. It's a disgrace, my son walking around with those miserable excuses for braids in his hair. Anyone would think you wouldn't know better."

"Freddie!"

At some point, Freddie had ceased to be called by his family name. In some strange way, it was a comfort. He was no longer singled out as someone who had fallen far from his accustomed position. Instead he was just one of a group of slaves. They were all on the same footing, and there was an odd safety in that.

"Master?" Freddie said meekly, eyes still on the floor. This wasn't the time for rebellion.

He could hear a disdainful sniff from beside him.

"You're going to braid my son's hair. Now. It's time you started doing some of your actual work. And that you learned what you are now."

In two swift steps, Deacon was beside Freddie. He grabbed his chin, none too gently. He was taller than Freddie, and strongly built, and it seemed easy for him to maintain his grip. 

"His looks aren't all that bad," Deacon remarked, turning Freddie's face from side to side. "If you like that sort of thing. And if you can forget that he's a filthy traitor."

Freddie tried to keep as still as possible. Maybe Deacon would leave it at that. Maybe he wouldn't – and maybe the Deacon boy wouldn't, at least not now –

Freddie sagged in relief as his chin was suddenly released. Deacon turned to Roger instead. 

"I prefer this look, myself, of course. Blond and young and pretty. Roger will help Freddie out. He should know how to do it by now. And he needs to remember his place. Doesn't he?"

Freddie looked at Roger covertly, from under his lashes, hoping Deacon wouldn't catch him doing it. It seemed as though Roger was sinking in on himself, trying to make himself look smaller, instead of being the undefeated, rage-filled young man he was expecting.

"And you'll both see to it that his braids will fit his station, and be well made. Roger, you know what will happen if you don't."

"Yes, Master," was all Roger said, in a colourless voice.

"Ah. That's more like it," Deacon said. "You're learning, boy. I'm looking forward to spending more time with you. Once I'm able to, properly. It won't be long now."

Freddie could have sworn that Roger shuddered at the words.

"But now. My son's hair." Deacon pointed at John, who had remained on his chair. He had put a hand across his mouth, and he looked a little pale.

Freddie and Roger glanced at each other sideways, and then they both moved to stand behind John. It was a very strange situation, being suddenly called to work together, and on such a task. But under Master Deacon's beady-eyed stare, and with the soldiers standing watch, there was nothing either of them could do but to comply.

Freddie swallowed and took a cautious hold of one of the small, messy braids currently in John's hair, untying the ribbon holding it and starting to undo it as gently as he could. He wasn't exactly a stranger to the process of making elaborate braids, but of course, he had never had to braid the whole of someone's hair. Even when they had played around with each other's braids with Kashmira sometimes, as children, the outcome had never held this kind of a weight. For a moment, he wondered where his sister was. He hoped she was safe somewhere. And then he resolutely banished all thoughts of what had been from his mind again.

Beside him, Roger had silently taken up a comb and a brush, as well as a couple of hair ties, from the dresser beside the bed. He came to stand beside Freddie, offering the comb to him.

John shifted restlessly on his seat, but otherwise made no sound as they went through his hair together. They sorted out the tangles and smoothed it out before dividing it up into smaller sections, in readiness to be worked up in a complex braiding. It was strangely intimate, but there was also something repulsive about doing it under Deacon's hawk-eyed, eager stare. It seemed almost as though he was enjoying what he was seeing, Freddie thought. 

It was a relief when they were interrupted. There was a polite knock at the door, and Deacon's second-in-command was shown into the room. He seemed agitated, crossing the floor quickly and speaking urgently with Deacon.

"Sir. We've just had a message come in from Fairfield. They've sent a craft all the way from the capital. It's serious this time. There's unrest all along the coast and – sir, we really need you to come deal with it. The messenger can't go back until you've spoken with them."

Deacon cast a sharp glance at the scene in the room.

"You two," he all but growled, "you'll finish this up as quickly as possible. John, I will expect you to report to me downstairs shortly." 

With that, Deacon turned and left the room, tailed closely by his second-in-command. After a beat, the soldiers followed them, leaving the two slaves alone with the Deacon boy. Freddie was still holding a half-finished braid of John's soft, wavy hair in his hand. 

Freddie and Roger turned to look at each other, surprise overruling any other emotion in the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you thought!


	9. Deep Breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter for this dark tale... Which I'm greatly enjoying writing with my co-collaborators.
> 
> I hope you, dear readers, are enjoying it, too.

\- - - 

The moment stretched into an uncomfortable few seconds, both of them momentarily frozen in place, staring at each other. It was the first time Roger was looking, really _looking_ at his former Master, reduced to a pale-faced boy with large, frightened eyes, unevenly cropped hair and bruises on his face. Meek and pathetic. And Roger found that he could not muster hate. Nor that twisted, cruel joy at justice rightly served which he had felt a week ago, when he had seen him beaten and disgraced. 

All he felt was numb indifference. Freddie was nothing but a shadow of his former self. And so was he. 

There was but a subdued, quietly curious part of Roger which recognised the precious potential in their situation. Surely, they ought to act? They ought to do _something_ , Roger would have thought not too long ago, given a situation like this. After all, they had been left so completely, carelessly unguarded and unobserved by the men who wielded power over them. Left alone with _a boy_ , skinny and unassuming. Surely between them they had strength and reason enough? 

But to what end? 

It was Roger who lowered his eyes first as his hands continued to move, finishing the braid, almost of their own accord. Meticulously carrying on with the task he had been assigned. Because there was nothing else he could do. 

Because it wasn't his own life, not his own safety, Roger thought, which was on the line. But Brian's. And he could not risk that, would not risk that, no matter the cost. And it wasn’t only about Brian. Even if Roger somehow escaped his predicament, who would replace him? How could he live with himself knowing he had condemned another boy to this fate?

There was nothing he could do but toe the line.

The fact that the Deacon had left him unsupervised without a second thought betrayed how low he had fallen. 

No one in Freddie's family would have had Roger so much as go near the upstairs, so unpredictable and untrustworthy they had thought him to be, and Roger had prided himself in that fact. They could beat him, but still they had feared him. 

Master Deacon had nothing to fear. 

Roger had never felt so devoid of hope and defeated in spirit before. So utterly powerless. 

He reached for a hair tie, to secure the end of the braid, and paused. 

No. That, of course, was a lie.

\- - - 

_Strangely, the most nauseating thing was the scent of strongly perfumed soap which clung to the Master’s skin, mixed with the inescapable, sharp taste and odour of the man himself, filling Roger’s nostrils. He had never thought he could find a simple smell so revolting, but it was that which was almost enough to make him bring up his supper, little though he had eaten of it._

_Well, not only that._

_He gagged, eyes watering, but the hand in his hair was painful and relentless, pulling him in and then again holding him firmly and inescapably in place._

_A night bird was singing outside the window, the curtain rustling in a breeze which Roger could feel on his face and the back of his neck, making him aware of the cold sweat covering his skin._

_Was it a blackbird? Roger thought it was._

_The clock on the nightstand ticked away the seconds too slowly, but he focused on its sound nonetheless. It accompanied the birdsong. Keeping time. Counting time. The minutes he knew he would try, and fail, to erase from memory._

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

_You could see the mountains which lay beyond the orchard so well through the Master’s bedroom window, during the day. Wasn’t it strange that he had looked at them each and every day of his life, and yet had never set foot anywhere near them? One day, he would. Roger imagined how fresh the mountain air must smell and closed his eyes, dislodging the teardrops clinging to his lashes._

_The muscles in his jaw ached, and the pain was a welcome distraction, too. Anything to block out the low moans and grunts of the man sitting in the armchair with his trousers undone. But he wasn't permitted to escape reality for long._

_“Look up.”_

_No._

_“Look at me, boy.” A threat in his Master’s breathless voice. Almost a growl._

_Roger raised his eyes up and didn’t look at the leer or the merciless eyes, dark with desire. Instead, he pictured mountaintops, and a horizon that stretched for miles. A picture of limitless freedom.  
His fingernails dug into his palm, one hand in his lap, the other loosely curled around hot skin. That had always been the plan. One day, he’d always thought, when they got out of here, they would make for the mountains. He and Brian. _

_Disappear into the wilderness where nobody would find them._

_The blackbird sang. The clock ticked. Pulled back by his hair, Roger gasped for breath and then quickly pressed his lips shut. At least that. He could wash his face, his neck, wash out the stains on his shirt. Could scrub his skin raw, but he couldn’t imagine scraping the taste off his tongue with much success._

_Not that anything could wash away the disgust and humiliation he felt._

_At least it was over._

_“Good boy.” The Master released him and let his head fall back with a grunt, waving an impatient hand. “Go clean yourself up, but hurry. I want you to braid my hair before bed. You could do with the practice.”_

_Unclenching his hand on top of his thigh, Roger felt the pain where his fingernails had dug into his palm so hard they had left grooves._

_“Yes, Master.”_

\- - - 

It wasn't until Roger picked up a hair tie and finished the braid that Freddie realised he had fallen behind. He blinked and tried to focus on the boy's hair between his fingers, brows knotted in a frown, but he couldn't stop glancing up at Roger. Couldn't quite believe that he was standing beside the very same boy he had known. The unpredictable, spirited youth who would glower at him with a passionate anger that had raised the small hairs all over his body if Freddie tried all but tried to say a word to him. The boy who had openly disobeyed Freddie's father so many times, fearlessly facing the consequences. 

Freddie couldn't believe his eyes, because if there was anyone he had expected to make something of an extraordinary moment like this, to show some form of defiance, then it was Roger. 

But there was nothing. There was none of the cold fire he had known in those blue eyes, and while Freddie had spent years of his life wishing it away, hoping that perhaps one day those eyes might look on him with something other than hatred, he was now devastated to realise that the fire was gone. 

His breath caught in his throat, a little, and he felt the stinging of unbidden tears in his eyes. Freddie swallowed and took a deep breath through his nose, fighting them back. It was just that he felt so sorry. For himself as well as Roger. 

Because he wasn't stupid nor naive, and he knew what had been done to the boy standing beside him. He had known it, really, even last night when he had overheard him crying.

The Deacon boy shifted in the chair and Freddie snapped out of his thoughts. 

"Freddie?" 

As effortlessly authoritative as his father's voice was, as timid and nervous the boy sounded, although he was clearly trying not to show it. 

"Yes." Freddie stared at the almost finished braid in his hands. "Master?" 

"Go close the door, please," said the young Deacon, not without a hint of urgency in his voice. " _Now._ "

Glancing back and forth between the hair tie he had just picked up and the end of the braid which would come undone if he let go, Freddie released it regardless and went to shut the door which had been left ajar, meeting the boy's eyes almost by accident when he turned back around. There was a strange look on his face. Was it trepidation? Freddie dropped his eyes, remembering his position. 

"Now finish my hair," the boy said, "...please." He sounded almost apologetic. "My father will want me down there shortly." 

"Yes, Master." 

Freddie returned to stand behind the chair and realised Roger had tied the braid he had left loose. 

"Thank you," he murmured, without thinking, and bit his lips. 

Roger cast him a quick glance, but said nothing. Nor did the Deacon boy reprimand him for speaking out of turn. Freddie exhaled a small sigh of relief and carefully selected a new section of hair, dividing it into three strands. The boy was fidgeting now, Freddie couldn't help but notice, and heard him draw a few deep breaths. Roger noticed it, too. Their eyes met again, wordlessly conveying their thoughts. An eyebrow slightly raised, a hint of a shrug. 

'What's going on with him?' 

'No idea.' 

And then, the boy spoke up again. "Freddie… I noticed there's a piano in the house. Did anyone play it?" 

"Er… yes." Freddie confirmed, thrown by the rather unexpected question, and quickly added, "Master." 

The Deacon boy huffed. "Please… Call me John. When we're alone, at least, I mean… that is… Roger doesn't count. Wait," he faltered, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say it like that." All of a sudden he seemed to realise that he had apologised to a slave, for reasons beyond anyone's comprehension. His tone changed, poorly mimicking his father's as he stumbled over his words. "Also, don't tell anyone about it. How I want you to un-err… _address_ me is nobody's business. Understood?" 

The two young men standing behind him exchanged such a bewildered look that, to Freddie's surprise and horror, he found himself only just managing to stifle a snicker. The corners of Roger's mouth twitched and he bit down on his lips, which wasn't helping. Freddie quickly looked away. 

"Yes," he managed to get out, and didn't dare to add anything more, not trusting himself to keep his voice steady. 

But ironically, it was the realisation that he hadn't laughed, or so much as smiled, in over two weeks - and remembering the reasons why - which quickly killed the urge to do so. 

\- - - 

It was a golden opportunity and he had to take it, John knew that. But it was also one of the riskiest things he'd ever had to do, so naturally he was making a mess out of it. 

Had he really just tried to say 'address' while thinking ahead to 'understood' and almost come out with 'undress'? Damn it all, the last thing he wanted was to sound like a creep, just like his father. His cheeks were burning something fierce, but he had to focus. This was his chance to make his intentions known, to try and see what the slaves would make of them. Then again, Freddie was not a regular slave and the last time John had tried to speak with him hadn't gone so well. But perhaps he had gone about it the wrong way. And much had changed since. There was nothing of that cold arrogance now, in Freddie, which he had encountered that day in the dungeon. Still, who was to say he didn't still harbour secret plans to take the estate back? However, maybe that was something John could worry about later. Maybe if Freddie did still have such ambitions, or at least the desire to avenge his father, then it would work in John's favour? At least for now. John was fairly certain that he had been left alone with the two people on the estate who had the most reason to despise his father right now. There was something to be gained here. There had to be. But he would have to be very smart about it. 

"Who was it? Who played the piano?" he asked. 

"My sister and I," replied Freddie. "Our mother taught us when she was still alive." 

"What kind of music?" asked John, praying for an answer he could work with. "What did you play?" 

He could feel Freddie's fingers hesitating, perhaps thinking about his answer, perhaps wondering why he was being asked such unusual questions. 

"My mother had sheet music… Mozart, Debussy, Beethoven… Liszt… I wasn't very good at most of it, though. Mostly I played… other things I knew." 

"And what were those?" 

Freddie gave a quiet huff. "Nothing special. Just… melodies. Songs from-" 

There was a beat. 

"From before?" John asked tentatively, and added more carefully still: "My father doesn't approve of any of that." 

Freddie was silent for a few moments, as though trying to gauge, perhaps, what it was that John wanted him to say, if anything. 

"Neither did mine," he finally murmured, in a small voice. 

John chewed his bottom lip, looking around the room, thinking. 

"But you played them anyway. Why." 

There was an even longer pause, this time, before Freddie replied. 

"Because they made me happy." 

The emotion in his voice was palpable. On John's left side, behind his shoulder, Roger gave a quiet snort. 

"I think everyone deserves that," said John, heart beating in his throat. "To be happy- ow-"

"I'm sorry, _Master_." Roger, who had pulled his hair, muttered. 

"What do you think?" John asked, a part of him terrified of what they might do to him if he pushed them too far and they didn't understand. "Freddie?" 

"I… I think everyone should know their place," The young man to his right replied. The words were rattled off as though rehearsed, an all-encompassing truth which had been instilled in him time and time again, which could never be questioned. "and be content with it." 

Roger took a deep breath and shifted beside him and John felt himself tense even more. 

"That's what my father says, too." He told them. "But… looks like we don't always listen. To our fathers." 

John had brought his hands up to his chin, clasped together. In a slow move that could have been a stretch, but definitely wasn't, he raised them up slowly over his head and unclasped them, before dropping his arms down on the armrests of the chair. Roger stilled. John felt dizzy, so excited and anxious was he at once. 

"Finished." Roger announced in a hollow voice, and took a step back. "Master." 

Even as Freddie secured the end of a braid, John turned to look at his father's personal servant. But Roger's face was a vacant, expressionless mask. John's heart sank. 

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door and all three of them jumped, heads turning to look. The door opened and one of the soldiers stepped inside. 

"Young Master," he said with a bow of his head, "Master Deacon requests your presence."

"Yes," John ran a hand over his braided hair, glancing back over his shoulder at Freddie, who had just let go of the last braid he had been working on. "I'm coming." 

With that he rose and joined the soldier who was waiting for him, turning back over his shoulder before he left the room. 

"It's almost supper time. Freddie… er, you're free to… to go to your quarters, for now. Roger," John was aware that he wasn't really in a position to dismiss his father's personal slave, but then again, his father had not left him with any instructions. "You too. My father will send for you if he wants you."

No sooner had the words rolled over his lips than he realised how they sounded. But there wasn't any time now to do anything about it, not with the guard waiting, and so he simply turned away and left the room.

Walking alongside the guard, John wondered if he had accomplished anything at all.

_Stage one is a go. Be prepared._

Crystal’s words rang in his ears, and his stomach was in knots as he wondered what the news were. Had the Starlings, the rebel freedom fighters, taken the large estates around the harbour of former London, New Brittania’s only port which had any connection to the mainland? If so, how long would they be able to hold them if the resistance didn’t rise up all over the country, overwhelming the response of the government? Would they stand a chance at all against the military force and the weapons only their leaders now possessed? Unless it was true, that those who were in the business of smuggling slaves to the relative safety of the mainland through the ancient channel in underwater craft had also smuggled weapons back into the country? There was so much John didn’t know in full. But if there was one thing he knew, it was what he was fighting for. What he knew was true and right in his heart of hearts. 

Every human life. Deserving of the right to be regarded as just that.

Human.

\- - - 

The door closed behind John and the soldier, leaving behind a charged sort of silence. Roger was aware that Freddie was staring at him, and his jaw tensed, fists clenching slightly. 

It would appear he had been wrong. He was still capable of hatred and anger. Young Master Deacon’s words had roused something in him. That screaming rage at the injustice of the world he lived in which always bubbled beneath the surface, sometimes taking him over completely. It was still alive and well, Roger realised, even as he turned to tidy up like an obedient domestic slave. And it hurt, because it had nowhere to go. All it did was burn him up from the inside out.

That Deacon brat. Roger bit down on his tongue hard, his jaw tense. He didn’t believe for a single moment that it wasn’t a trap. All of it. Designed to suss him out. Trip him up. Get him to admit to something that would incriminate him, only to torture him further by making Brian suffer for it. For all the knew Freddie might be in on it, too. Chatting to the boy, casually as you like. It wouldn't be impossible. Neither of them could be trusted. 

‘But he came to you, that night,’ a small voice in his mind pointed out, ‘The Deacon’s son. He came to see you before you were taken upstairs, for the first time. And he made the sign...’ 

Roger paused, staring at the ornate hairbrush in his hand for a second or two, and then quickly out it away in the bottom drawer of the nightstand with the remaining things. 

Impossible. If there was one thing he had learned in his life, it was that you could never trust the Masters. They were all one and the same. It was a trap, a deception, that he was sure of. And he wasn’t going to fall for it.

When he turned to leave, Roger was brought up short by the sight of Freddie, still standing beside the door.

“What are you waiting for?” Roger asked dumbly, a perplexed frown on his face.

Freddie, who had been watching him, lowered his gaze, thick lashed hiding his eyes.

“I thought… we’re headed back the same way,” he murmured abashedly, hands hovering in front of his body as though lost for what to do.

“Doesn’t mean we have to go together.” Roger retorted and crossed over to him, stopping a couple of paces away. Lifting his dark eyes back up to him, lips pulled taunt across his teeth, Freddie regarded him with silent acquiescence. But not without a hint of disappointment, _hurt_ almost, flickering across his face. Roger had the sudden urge to shove him into the wall. How dare he? “Don’t forget for one moment,” he uttered quietly, voice sharp nonetheless, “that we all know who you really are. Because I haven't forgotten, and I never will.”

Not hanging around to hear the response, if any was forthcoming, Roger marched out of the room. His heart was still hammering faster than usual in his chest when he drew back the curtain and let himself into his own small room, sinking down onto the narrow bed. His mind was racing. The small space was filled with the smells of food cooking, wafting down the corridor from the kitchen, the air full of noises from the same. Head in his hands, he didn’t hear the footsteps approaching until the curtain was drawn back, and Roger’s eyes snapped up, widening in disbelief at the sight of Freddie.

“Don’t you _dare_ set foot in here-” Roger started, quickly rising from his bed and advancing on the raven-haired man.

“The sign.” Freddie cut in, staring at him intently, no longer timid but in fact loud enough to bring Roger up short momentarily. “Was it?" He asked, utilising Roger’s momentary silence. “It was, wasn’t it? I’ve heard of the Starlings, of course I have, I just never-”

In one quick move, Roger lunged forward, grabbing him by the arm, and yanked him into the room, drawing the curtain shut behind them. Caught off guard, Freddie stumbled almost all the way to the opposite wall and turned, backing into it. Roger was upon him in a moment, one palm pressed to the wall beside him. 

"Shut your mouth," he hissed, instinctively glancing back over his shoulder where the curtain still swayed, "Don't talk about these things to me, don't talk about them _at all_ , are you mad?" 

Freddie blinked at him, wide-eyed. "So it was…?" 

Taking a step back, Roger scoffed, narrowing his eyes at him. "So what if it was? You don't actually believe- It's a fucking set up! A mind game, is what it is to them!" His upper lip curled in disdain. "To the likes of _you_." 

"The likes of me?" Freddie was glaring back at him now, dark eyes gleaming in the dim light. "Look at me!" He took a step forward, one hand demonstratively pulling at his short hair. "Look at me and tell me how we are different right now!" 

It was the last drop. The hurt, anger and despair which Roger had been keeping locked up inside, unable to let on, not even to Brian, and all of it built on a lifetime of fury and resentment, overflowed. He couldn't have stopped himself even if he'd wanted to, his reaction impulsive and immediate. The slap knocked Freddie's head sideways and sent him back up against the wall. Before he had a chance to react, Roger lurched forward and pressed him into the wall with his weight, grabbing a fistful of his hair. 

"We are _not_ the same," he growled against his ear, his other hand tight around Freddie's upper arm, trapping him in place. "Get that through your head! You think _one week_ as a slave compares to my life? How many times did they string you up on the flogging tree? How many hours have you spent breaking your back in the fields? Or the orchard, or the garden while the lazy fucker who _owns your life_ lounges in the shade, watching you without a fucking care in the world? How many of your friends have you seen bleed and cry? _Huh_?! Was _your_ mother taken from you when you were seven? Did you watch her being dragged away, screaming your name, knowing you'd never see her again? Were you beaten within an inch of your life every single fucking day for weeks because you screamed for her and refused to _listen_?"

It was only when he choked on tears at the last word that Roger stopped, drew a shuddering breath, and slowly became aware of himself. And of Freddie, eyes squeezed shut and lips trembling, a red mark across his cheek where he had hit him. Roger released him at once and took an unsteady step back, watching him slide down along the wall to the ground and cradle his head in his hands. Cook was shouting in the kitchen, over the sound of running water and the clanging of pots and pans.  
Roger's legs felt shaky. He wiped his face on his sleeve, sniffed and slowly lowered himself down onto the cot. Watching Freddie out of the corner of his eye. The way his shoulders quivered as he curled in on himself against the wall. 

He had done that. Roger had done that.  
'Good. He deserves it,' a self-righteous part of him insisted. 'He deserves worse.'

_Hate begets hate, violence begets violence._

The words echoed in his head, and he couldn't say where he had heard them. It sounded like something Clara would say. 

'Perhaps you are not so different, after all,' something else whispered inside him, and Roger felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

"Get out," he rasped, but there was no aggression in it now. It had burned itself out like a match stick. 

Freddie made a soft, broken sound and cleared his throat, gingerly lifting his head out of his hands. Frowning at the ground, he wiped his eyes and cast Roger a wary look.

"Do you know," he said, his voice hoarse but not without a note of defiant anger, "it isn't just you… who didn't have a choice." With that, he lifted himself up, chin stuck out and head held high, even though he was looking down at Roger through puffy eyes. "And I always…" He trailed off as he reached up to touch his cheek, and shook his head with a quiet huff, averting his gaze. "Never you mind." 

With that, he strode past Roger, giving him as wide a berth as he could, and disappeared through the curtain. 

The many times Roger had imagined what it might feel like, to have the upper hand over his Masters, to hurt them in return, it had always been a deeply satisfying fantasy. 

But he didn't feel that satisfaction now. He barely knew what he felt at all, anymore. He thought of the brief smile he had shared with Freddie upstairs, and of the Master's words - _Not long now..._ \- and the strange Deacon boy who had dangled hope in front of him which Roger did not dare trust, and he felt sick with it all. 

The curtain rustled, startling him out of his stupor. 

"Roger! Thank goodness you're here," Brian slipped inside, a sort of rushed, almost panicked air about him. "I've just overheard… well, the thing is, there's something… something I've been meaning to tell you, anyway, and now…" His friend hesitated. "Are you alright?" 

"Yeah." Roger nodded, but he couldn't do it. He was trying, but he couldn't keep up the facade, not right now, under Brian's concerned gaze.

But if he started talking now he wouldn't stop. It would all just come pouring out of him. 

"Roger…" 

"I-" He cut himself off and swallowed, not looking at the other man. "Can you just leave me alone? Can _everyone_ please just leave me the fuck alone?"

Brian stepped closer and began to lower himself onto the bed beside him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "What's happened-" 

"Nothing!" Roger shrugged his hand off and turned away, fully realising that he was only worrying his friend more, setting himself up for more concerned questioning. With a herculean effort, he forced himself to think of mountain tops and endless horizons, and schooled his features into something resembling a neutral expression, before he turned back around. "Sorry. Long day. You know how it is. What was it you needed to tell me?" 

\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over to... one of the other three! ❤️


	10. Safe Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies!
> 
> It's been awhile... Sorry for the delay!
> 
> We're back again and this time it was my turn to play... I'm very nervous to see what you'll think xD
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

John found his father in the estate’s large ballroom, pacing the smooth wooden floors with a distracted look on his face.

The Deacon didn’t even seem to realize that John had joined him in the airy room, until John cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Oh!” His father turned to him. “John. Good.” His icy, grey eyes honed in on John’s freshly made braids. “Turn around.”

John did, feeling ridiculous and extremely uncomfortable as the other man came up behind him, his fingers running over the braids carefully.

“Hm.” Arthur Deacon muttered. “This is barely acceptable for a young man of your position. They clearly need more practice. Or perhaps,” John could feel warm breath on the sensitive skin of his neck as his father chuckled, “more _motivation_ …”

John pulled his hair out of his father’s grasp and turned to face him, carefully trying to keep his features neutral. He couldn’t let the disgust and horror he felt show. Nor the cold flame of hate, nestled deep in his chest. “Did you talk to the messenger?” 

“I did.” The Deacon said, walking past John to close the heavy doors towards the hallway. “There’s trouble.” 

Nervous sweat was breaking out all over John’s palms. He wiped them off on his trousers, continuously doing his best to act bored and disinterested while his heart was beating twice its normal speed.

“Those blasted rebels are attacking several of the government's strongholds around former London. They have taken the estates closest to the water and their ships keep wreaking havoc and taking down government vessels.” The Deacon rolled his eyes. “One can only wonder what those inept cowards of the government are doing, they should have enough men and weapons to make mince of the rebel scum.”

John watched quietly as his father trekked back and forth over the floor, his large hands clasped behind his back. The injury to his stomach didn’t seem to bother him much anymore.

“However, since we’re all under the government’s _protection_ ,” The Deacon scoffed, “it’s our duty to help them in this crisis. I’ve been ordered to send half of the soldiers, _half_ , to former London. Tomorrow.” He glanced at John, smiling wryly. “I am giving them a third. And they should be damn happy about it.”

“Can we really afford to go against the government like that? Surely we have enough soldiers to spare?” John asked. 

_Yes. Send the men away. Leave the estate in the hands of the slaves. Let the sparks smoulder and burn._

The Deacon waved him off. “Those idiots have no idea how many men I, or any other estate-holder in New Britannia north of the waist, have. Besides, I just reclaimed this plot of land and its slaves. It’s not yet been fourteen days and I’ve already been stabbed, son. The slaves are stubborn, proud and rude. I might have removed the largest threat from their side but that doesn’t mean we’re safe, oh no. Far from it. If we let them do as they please, we’ll have a rebellion on our hands in less than a month. Mark my words.”

John imagined the estate burning. Imagined his father tied up to the whipping tree, his braids singed by the flames. Imagined taking his father’s beautiful dagger and…

No. He shook his head, putting on a hopefully credible expression of concern.

“And as if that wasn’t enough, it seems like the rebels aren’t only coming for the south. No. Their ships have been spotted up here, too. They’re going to attack, John, and soon. They’ll be coming for the whole of New Britannia, trying to trap us from all sides. Some say the Starlings have joined forces with the Mainland Resistance and the anarchists of Scandinavia, and that’s where their sudden energy and resources come from. Personally, I think they’ve grown desperate. That this is their last foolish attempt.” He smiled again, his fingers lovingly caressing the dagger in his belt. “They are going to crash and burn.”

“No.” 

John froze. He’d grit the word out without meaning to. 

The Deacon watched him, a peculiar look on his face. “No?”

“I mean,” John started, his throat thick, “they’re going to burn, and then crash. We’ll set their pretty wings on fire and watch them crash into the ocean. Let the unforgiving waves drown them like rats..”

It was quit for a moment, father and son staring at each other. 

The heat was unbearable. The sticky, moist warmth seeping in from outside, plastering John’s shirt to his skin. 

John could feel his pulse pounding through his entire body, so strongly he was sure he was shaking with it.

Then his father grinned at him and let out a snort of laughter. “You’re hardly a poet, son. Leave that nonsense to the girls.” He walked up to John and squeezed his shoulder. “But I’m glad for your enthusiasm. The messenger also came here to tell me about an emergency meeting, taking place in Fairfield in two days. All the estate owners of the area will be there and decide what to do about the threat of the rebels. As my son, I want you to join me there.”

If there was anything John really didn’t feel like doing, it was that. 

“Of course, Arthur.” He nodded.

“Naturally, you’ll also want to bring your personal servant, so he can look after you during the stay. Let us show everyone what happens to those who stand in the way of the Deacons.”

John nodded again, feeling bile rise at the back of his throat. “Yes.”

“Good. That’s all. You can leave.”

The words had barely left his father’s lips before there was a loud knock on the door. 

“Come in.” The Deacon called out, and his second-in-command stepped inside.

The tall man was frowning, his lips set in a thin line beneath his strawberry blond, bushy mustache. “The old majordomo, Sir. He’s dead.”

“That fool.” John’s father sighed. “I assume he never told anyone the combination?”

“No, Sir.”

“A remarkable slave, really. His loyalty was wasted on such a spineless Master. Oh, well. Hang him up outside. He’s still of use as a reminder to other potential troublemakers.”

John turned on his heel and left. 

His hands were shaking. His entire being was shaking.

He felt sick.

“What do you want to do about the safe, Sir?”

His father sighed again, and John slowed his step just a fraction, listening closely as he made his way to the door. “We need to bring some kind of expert here. Or force it open. My father left something of great value in it, and I need to get into the bloody thing. Damn the Bulsara’s to hell for changing the combination… Ah, John?”

“Yes?”

“Close the door on your way out.”

John turned to face the two men and bowed his head respectfully. “Yes, _father_.”

His father’s face brightened noticeably and John silently congratulated himself. Then, with one last nod to his father and his second-in-command, he turned and carefully closed the door behind him.

Luckily, the entrance hall was empty. John managed to stumble up to one of the impressive pillars and pressed his sweaty forehead against the smooth marble.

The poor majordomo. It was a disgrace. 

John wished he could hide his body away. Wished he held the power to build him a funeral fire and let the old man’s spirit pass peacefully, letting it escape this hell together with the smoke, slowly dancing its way up to the heavens.

And, he wished he wouldn’t have to drag Freddie to the meeting. Most likely, the young man had met several of these people before, but as a young Master. To face them as a slave… John couldn’t imagine the humiliation.

But, he had no choice but to do as his father wanted, for now, or he’d surely arouse suspicion. Hell, he’d almost given himself and his loyalties away just minutes ago. From now on, he’d have to be much more careful.

It had been reckless of him to show the symbol of the resistance to the slaves, at all. They could easily turn on him and tell his father. And while John was confident his father, in his blind pride of his own bloodline, would believe John’s word over a slave’s, it would still look suspicious.

However, he was sure that his father’s new plaything, Roger, had to know about (and more importantly, support) the Starlings. He remembered the surprised look in the young man’s eyes that first night, when John had sneaked into the guest room. And the fire… That beautiful fire his father was so very keen on smothering.

John would have to talk to him again, in private.

But not now. 

Now, John would go light a candle in the privacy of his chamber, in honour of an old, brave man he’d unfortunately never gotten to know.

\- - -

Something was most definitely _not_ okay.

Roger’s eyes were wrong. His voice was wrong.

Brian watched his friend, the lately ever present clump in his throat growing.

“Come on, Brian.” Roger muttered, impatient now, one hip cocked to the side. “I need to go run Master Dick his bath before supper.”

And the wall was back up again. Since Brian had arrived at the estate, all those years ago, he’d never felt further from his best friend than now. So shut out from his life.

Still, the news he carried might be enough to bring _his_ Roger back, the bloodthirsty, abrasive and strong Roger who always dove headfirst into trouble. Who always looked out for Brian.

Taking a deep breath, Brian quickly pulled the curtain to the side and peered out. The Cook and the kitchen slaves were as always busy in the kitchen, but otherwise, it was quiet.

Turning back to Roger he put a finger over his own lips, meaningly, before walking closer and putting his mouth close to his ear.

“Dom talked to me the other day.”

Roger’s hands flew up to grab Brian’s arms as soon as he spoke, his body frozen stiff. Brian frowned, pulling back to meet Roger’s eyes.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just a bit under the weather still. What did Dom say?”

Frowning, Brian didn’t lean as close when he continued. “She said the Starlings have commenced the attack. They’re creating all sort of trouble down south, and word is, they’re also up here. They’re _close_ , Rog. It’s time.” 

“What?” Roger whispered, eyes wide and disbelieving. “Are you… Is it certain? Are they sure?”

“It seems that way. Dom and the others believe this is what we’ve been waiting for, that this will be our chance, finally, to try to break free. But to do so, we, all of the slaves on the estate, we are going to need you.”

Excitement blossoming in his chest, Brian took Roger’s hands in his, squeezing them tightly. “No one else have the strength, the courage and influence, to bring us all together.”

Roger took a shuddering breath, averting his gaze from Brian’s to stare at his chest. Brian guessed he was too overwhelmed and excited to know what to say. 

“It needs to happen soon. Dom wants to talk to you in person, but it’s basically the same old plan. We need to find the hidden tunnel beneath the wall, and then the passage through the mountains. Get the old and weak ones out, before the rest of us attack.”

Roger pulled his hands back. “How do we even know there is a tunnel. Or a passage.”

“What?” Brian stared at him, uncomprehending. “What do you mean, _of course_ there is a tunnel. What about old Clara’s brother? The one who disappeared all those years ago? And the tales your mother told you, of the secret map?”

Roger looked up then, his expression blank except for the corner of one eye twitching. “We don’t know if any of that is true. We’ve not found the tunnel yet, have we? What if it’s just fairy tales, all of it, a hopeless dream to keep us going when in reality there is nothing we can do but work until our bodies and souls break?”

His voice was growing louder and Brian hushed him, sending a nervous glance towards the curtain.

“What if,” Roger continued, voice low and hoarse, “we follow the plan. Set fire to the barracks and ambush the soldiers. What if the soldiers overpower us? What if they find the old and weak ones, the _innocent_ ones, before they’ve gotten away? What if there was never any tunnel, Brian? What if we get everyone killed?”

Brian’s heart sunk in his chest. “What is wrong with you? Roger, what is going on?”

This plan, the ambush, the tunnel and passage - Roger had waited years to put it in action. It was what he had always wanted. It was all he’d dreamed and longed for, for as long as they’d known each other. This person in front of him, he was a stranger to Brian.

“What has he done to you?” Brian whispered, reaching up to cradle Roger’s face in his hands, looking deeply into his eyes. “Tell me.”

Roger reached up to wrap his fingers around Brian’s wrists. For a moment Brian thought he’d pull his hands away, but he just held onto Brian and closed his eyes. “Please stop.”

“No. This is your dream. And I don’t believe for a second that you’ve given up.”

_I can’t believe you’ve finally lost hope. Not you. I can’t bear it._

They were both quiet for a moment, their breathing mingling as they stood close, holding onto each other. Brian wanted to shake his friend, so frustrated and worried and scared, was he for Roger.

Finally, Roger exhaled deeply and opened his eyes, a newfound determination in them.

“I haven’t given up. But we’ll only get one shot at this and we must not fail.” He gently removed Brian’s hands from his face, a deep frown between his brows. “We have to find the tunnel before we start the operation. Tell Dom that. And, when, _if_ , the Starlings do get here, I will lead the others. On one condition.” 

The blue of his eyes pierced Brian, his gaze so heavy it swallowed the rest of the world, leaving just Brian and Roger.

“When we do find the tunnel, _you_ need to get out. I want you to lead the people who don’t want to fight away from here. Get the fuck away from this place. Find somewhere hidden, somewhere safe.”

Brian gaped. “Wh...what?” That was not what he’d pictured. Not at all. He wanted to stand by Roger’s side. “Why? I can fight!”

“Come on, Bri.” The corners of Roger’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “You don’t want to fight. You’re good. Too good. You wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

The recent memory of young Master Buls… Freddie, on his backside out in the dirt, just two weeks ago, made Brian blush. It was true. He should have given Freddie over to the new Master, but instead he’d helped the man inside, risking his own life along the way. And for what? In the end Freddie had been caught, anyway.

And now, the former young Master was a simple slave, just like the rest of them.

“No.” Brian shook his head. “If you’re going to be in the middle of it, I want to be there with you. Not hiding away in some old mountain pass with Clara and the others.”

Somehow, Roger stepped even closer, their chests now pressed flush together. Brian’s ears burned.

“Still, that’s exactly what you need to do. If I’m to lead us, you need to be out of harm’s way. That is the only way this can happen.”

No. That wasn’t right. Brian would never leave Roger like that. Never. If they were to find their freedom, it was together, or there was no point. “That’s ridiculous! I’m older than Dom and many of the others planning to fight. You can’t make me leave. I won’t do it! I don’t understand why you won’t let me fight with you.”

“Don’t you?” Roger said softly. He was so close Brian could feel his breath brushing over his jaw as Roger tilted his face upwards, his eyes begging. “Don’t you understand why I want to keep you safe more than anything? Don’t you know?”

Brian’s heart beat so hard he could feel it in his throat. Roger was so warm, pressed up against him. It should have been uncomfortable in the sweltering afternoon heat but it wasn’t. It just felt right.

“What?” He whispered, his breath hitching in his throat as Roger’s arms wrapped around his waist. “Roger, I…”

“Promise me, Brian.” Roger said, before reaching up to press their lips together.

\- - -

Sleep just wouldn’t come.

Freddie laid on the thin mattress, on his back, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling. 

It was dark. But his eyes had got used to it, hours ago.

His body was exhausted but his mind just wouldn’t quiet down. His head was filled to the brim, the events of the day repeating themselves again and again. And he was powerless to stop it.

What if he’d acted differently? What if he’d said things differently?

_You think one week as a slave compares to my life?_

Could he have become closer to Roger then? 

Earlier, while braiding young Master Deacon’s hair together, it felt as if they had connected, briefly. 

It had been a wondrous feeling. And Freddie wanted that again.

But what was young Master Deacon up to, anyway? He’d acted very odd. Very odd. And then the sign… The sign of the Starlings.

Freddie had heard about them of course. But he didn’t know much. He’d only heard whispers here and there… Could the vile Master Deacon’s own son really be part of the rebel movement?

Sighing, he pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. 

Later in the evening, when Freddie’d had to rebraid the young Master’s braids, this time on his own, before bed, John had seemed forlorn. He’d barely talked, barely even looked at Freddie. 

Not that Freddie had been in a particularly chipper mood, himself. The fight with Roger had upset him, greatly. More so than what he’d expected.

He could still feel the sting of the slap on his cheek. Could still feel Roger’s hand tight around his arm. Could hear his furious voice.

It wasn’t fair. 

Freddie was _trying_. 

He was trying to get to know the other man better, trying to get to be his friend. 

The cold feeling in his empty stomach grew and Freddie rolled over onto his side, sniffling miserably as he pulled his legs up to his chest.

He still felt awful. He felt _more_ awful.

Earlier, right after the fight, he’d been so shocked, so angry and hurt, he’d had to run outside. The sun had been merciless outside, its rays heavy on his back as he sank to his knees in the fresh dirt of the herb garden. 

How he’d wished for the shade of the terrace and his iced tea.

Things he’d never have again.

Things Roger had never experienced, at all.

While they might not be so different, right now, him and the other slaves, it was true that Freddie would never be one of them. Not really.

He was only alive because of his cowardice.

And he had shamed everyone. 

He had had a choice. The slaves had not.

Without thinking of it, his fingers found the familiar shape of the medallion and pulled it out. He opened the lid and stared at the picture of his mother, her features barely visible in the darkness 

It didn’t matter. He knew her face in his heart.

He stared at his mother, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. Even if he had no right to, he was immediately comforted by the thought of her. The fond, warm memories he had of her, that nothing, not even the loss of his freedom, could take away.

His thumb traced the edge of the photo carefully, his skin barely brushing over it, but the photograph moved slightly in its tiny frame. 

Anxious he’d managed to ruin also this, Freddie desperately tried to pull the photograph back down, but when he did, it slipped out completely and fell onto the mattress.

Gasping, Freddie gingerly picked it back up with trembling fingers. How could he be so unfathomably clumsy?

Berating himself, he held the photograph between his thumb and pointer finger, the open medallion in his other hand.

His eyes shifted to the piece of jewelry and he frowned.

There was a small piece of paper left in it. It must had been sitting behind the photograph all along. Squinting at the paper he managed to make out a few numbers scratched down with dark ink.

7 5 7 8

That was weird.

Shrugging it off for now, Freddie carefully worked the photograph of his mother back into its frame, hiding the piece of paper from view.

Then, when his mother was safe, back inside the medallion, he closed it with a relieved sigh, cradled it to his heart and burrowed his face back into the mattress, willing sleep to finally come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what Europe might look like in this fic, since this takes place in a let's say... kinda fucked future...
> 
> If you want to take a peak at how the world might look like should the Arctic and Antarctica melt, here's the site!  
> [National Geopgraphic](https://www.nationalgeographic.com/magazine/2013/09/rising-seas-ice-melt-new-shoreline-maps/)
> 
> And over to next in line!! <3


	11. Unsteady Ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please mind the tags, and as ever, read safely!
> 
> So many thanks to my awesome co-creators - and for everyone who's read and commented on this story. I'm sorry for taking an age with this chapter!

The early morning air felt cool on Brian's face. The sun was just rising, and the mountains were blue and hazy in the distance. Brian closed his eyes for a moment, luxuriating in the sensation. After it had been far too hot for far too long, it seemed that the cooler air of autumn was finally on its way.

He had barely slept during the night, too keyed up to relax. His mind kept circling, over and over again. One thought kept running through his mind.

 _He kissed me._

Brian breathed in deeply, savouring the freshness and the relief it brought to his throbbing head.

_He did.  
I didn't imagine it._

Brian thought that if he strained a little, maybe he could still feel the faintest ghost of the press of lips on his own, warm and comforting and everything he had ever wanted.

_He kissed me.  
It wasn't just me.  
I didn't imagine it. It really happened._

Despite the early hour, there were already plenty of people around. Soldiers and slaves both went about their business, their voices carrying in the stillness of the early day. Brian knew that this was because a sizeable part of the soldiers was scheduled to leave that evening, going to join with the government forces as decreed and to fight against the rebels. But at the same time, a part of the noise and bustle was in preparation for Master Deacon and his son's travelling to Fairfield. It seemed that wasn't that easy for the masters to simply visit a meeting of their fellow landowners: an entourage was needed, and that took a great deal of work. 

_Roger kissed me.  
He likes me. He cares for me.  
He has to. Otherwise he wouldn't have kissed me.  
Or at least he doesn't hate me.  
Does he?  
He kissed me.  
He did.  
He reached for me. It wasn't me._

There was a crash and a muffled curse from somewhere to his right. Brian tried to focus. 

"It won't work," someone said; a voice he didn't recognise. One of the soldiers, then. "It won't fit. We need at least one more wagon if all of this is going to go in."

Another soldier sighed, resigned. The man was almost as tall as Brian, and he gestured tiredly at the heap of bundles and crates piled next to a cart. "Well, you go get someone to arrange another wagon, then. Just fix it, that's all I'm asking. Did it break?"

The two soldiers bent back to their task. Standing next to them, his hands on his hips, was the estate's doctor. He looked like he didn't quite know what to do with himself, a little lost and sad. Brian acknowledged him with a nod when he turned to him.

"Brian!" the doctor said. "Finally someone who's useful. When you have a moment to spare, can you fetch me a bit of rosemary from the herb garden?"

"Of course, doctor," Brian said, inclining his head. "I just need to get to the stables first." He crossed his fingers briefly behind his back, hoping he wouldn't be questioned any closer.

The doctor seemed to be preoccupied with his own concerns, however. "First he manages to make his injury worse again. And then he comes up with all these unreasonable demands. Where he expects me to find the time to mix up a batch of his favourite hair oil, I've no idea," he grumbled. 

"Master Deacon?" Brian asked, startled. 

"Of course! Who else? It's as though I haven't got enough to do as it is! As though I haven't got more important things on my hands. Like I'm just here at his beck and call all day!" The doctor said, waving his hands agitatedly.

"Yes, sir," Brian said. _I think that's exactly what you are, though. And you might get more done if you didn't stand there complaining about it,_ he thought rebelliously. After seeing what the doctor's healing skills had done to Roger, making his condition worse rather than better after his flogging, Brian wasn't disposed to be particularly sympathetic. _Hair oil is about the limit of what I would trust him with. Maybe he can't muck that up, at least. Or if he does, it's Deacon's hair he's going to ruin. Maybe it wouldn't be all that bad if he did get it wrong, actually._

Cheered by the thought, Brian bowed again and went on, crossing the courtyard quickly, weaving through the crowd of people. In contrast to the bright morning, inside the stables it was dim and shadowy, dust motes swirling in the slanting light.

"Dom? Am I disturbing you?" Brian ventured, seeing the young girl engrossed in her work at a bench near the back wall. It looked like she was repairing a piece of tack, strips of leather littered across the space in front of her. She lifted large dark eyes to look at him.

"Brian?" she said, getting right to the point. "Did you talk to Roger?"

"I did, yes," Brian said. He swallowed, trying to banish the memory of the warmth of Roger's arms around his waist. This wasn't the time. The feel of Roger's soft hair under his hesitant fingers as he lifted a careful hand to card through it for a moment. 

His confusion was made worse by the intensity in Dom's eyes. There was a light in them when she spoke about Roger that wasn't there at other times.

"We talked about it," Brian said. "He knows about the plan, and he promised to be there. But there's a bit of a problem."

"Oh?"

"He will only do it if we make sure about the –" Brian looked around him. There was no one else there. One of the horses whinnied softly and then snorted, and they could still hear voices from the courtyard, but other than that, they were alone. But Brian lowered his voice anyway. Just in case. You could never be certain. 

"The tunnels," he whispered. "We have to make sure. No one knows exactly where they are. We need to figure it out."

Dom sighed, sounding exasperated now. "That's old news, Brian. We'll just have to see how it goes when we get to it. And there's nothing new about danger. It's all hanging by a thread, this whole thing. I don't need to tell you that." 

"No, but listen," Brian said. "I've been thinking about it. I'm almost sure we could find out."

"How do you mean?"

"The old majordomo's papers. I've been told to tidy them up, you know. And I'm almost certain that I've seen some kind of a drawing of the whole house in there. What if there's some kind of a plan of the cellars there? I could find out."

Dom was nodding now, cautiously optimistic.

"And I'm able to move around on the estate," Brian said. "I'll look for it. They won't suspect me. And even if they do, I'll just say I'm on an errand. We've never really got this far before, have we? But this time, I think we have an actual chance to make it work."

"I suppose you're right," she said, not sounding entirely convinced. "It's just, Brian, we haven't got that much time. We need to move while the soldiers are gone. Really soon. We can't wait."

"But haven't you heard, Dom? Master Deacon and his son are heading to Fairfield. There's a meeting there, the day after tomorrow. Roger has to go with them."

"Damn," she swore. "We didn't need that. I was counting on us to have the element of surprise on our side. But for that, we'd need to move now. Not in a week."

"Do you think we'll be ready that soon?" Brian asked.

"No, wait," Dom said, thoughtfully. "Now that I think about it. You know who else will be in Fairfield? She cupped her hands briefly, looking meaningfully at Brian all the while.

Brian inhaled sharply. "You mean – you want to get in touch with them?" He tried to keep his voice down. "The Starlings? Again? But I thought you already had orders?"

"Well," Dom demurred. "I think they might like to know that there are so few soldiers here. And if we can find out about the tunnels, see where they lead? I think it could interest them, too. But Brian, that's actually perfect, you know." Checking to make sure they were still alone, she leaned over to give Brian a quick one-armed hug. Brian blinked, startled.

"Don't you see? That gives us a time for it. A real plan. As you just said, Roger is going to Fairfield in two days. You tell him to get in touch with them when he's there. I'll tell you everything I know, you pass it on. I'll coordinate here, with the other slaves. And when Roger comes back, that's when we'll have everything ready. As long as they won't know to expect it, we can pull it off. And some more support wouldn't hurt. So you find out about the tunnels, and we'll plan."

Brian hummed. "There's a lot that could go wrong," he said, unhappy.

"Well, do you have other suggestions?"

"Not really, no. I'll let Roger know, and get back to you," he said with a sigh. 

He turned on his heels, determined to start working on the problem of the tunnels right away. Maybe he could take a quick look at the papers? And maybe he could even find the map? The one that Roger said that his mother talked about? Showing the old ways around the estate?

On his way back in, he caught sight of the body of the majordomo. It had been strung up outside near the flogging tree, swaying slightly in the breeze, turning gently. There were some big black crows sitting on a fence nearby, keeping an interested eye on the proceedings. Not daring to come close, not quite yet. Brian gagged, nearly losing what little he'd been able to get inside him of Cook's watery porridge earlier. Wiping his sleeve across his mouth and trying hard not to look at the ghastly sight, he hurried on towards the herb garden. 

His hands were shaking as he bent over the rosemary bush, selecting suitable sprigs for cuttings. He swallowed against the bile in his throat. They would have to make this work, somehow. And keep it secret. The majordomo's body was far too poignant and gruesome a reminder of what would happen to all of them if this went wrong.

* * *

Brian had tried to get hold of Roger to tell him the news, but he was nowhere to be found. Brian sighed deeply. He shouldn't be acting like a lovesick fool, he knew that, but he didn't seem to be able to help himself. Every time he turned a corner, he kept hoping to catch sight of the familiar blond head. It wasn't just Dom's plan, really. He wanted to tell him – tell him – what? He shook his head again. But he was out of luck on that front, and Roger remained out of his reach.

He did see Freddie at one point, though, hurrying along with his head bowed, not even acknowledging Brian. He wasn't sure he had even seen him. It made him feel a little bad, for a moment: perhaps he should have tried to have been more friendly towards him? After all, it couldn't have been an easy time for Freddie, going from a privileged slave-owner who could laze around all day, to his current existence. But Brian steeled himself. He had a job to do, after all. If he succeeded, maybe they would all have some sort of a chance at a different sort of life. And maybe then there would be time for talking and for understanding.

Halfway through the morning, he settled down in the old majordomo's crowded office. It was a mess: Deacon and his men had clearly rifled through the papers in their increasingly desperate search for the combination to the safe. But Brian had been in here before, and he had an idea of what he was looking for. It was surprisingly easy, once he got to it. Under the guise of cleaning up, he was able to find what he was looking for quickly enough. There was an entire folder filled with layouts and charts of the house and grounds. The papers were in a disarray, but it didn't look as though anything had been removed.

A particularly interesting old drawing of the cellar caught his attention. Was this perhaps it? The cellar in the drawing definitely didn't look quite the way it was now; Brian thought it was worth investigating. When most of the household was busy setting out lunch for the soldiers and for the masters, he quietly made his way down the stairs and to the cellars.

He walked quickly through the familiar, musty corridors. He passed the sleeping quarters and the door leading to the cells. Somewhere beyond the indoor well, and past the section that held extensive racks of wine, that's how it had looked in the drawing. 

Suddenly, he heard voices from somewhere behind him. He drew to the side, hiding behind a shelf filled with empty packing crates. He tried to stay as still as possible, only peeking out to see who was doing the talking.

He had been just in time in his hiding: it was none other than Master Deacon, walking with his second-in-command. The Deacon looked as though descending the steep stairs into the cellars hadn't done him any favours. It was difficult to judge in the faint light of the oil lanterns, but Brian thought he looked paler than usually. He was holding a hand to his stomach, leaning slightly on a wall with the other. Perhaps the wound was still giving him some trouble? Hadn't the doctor said something about a renewed injury? Brian couldn't help hoping that the pain was severe.

"Bloody hell. Does it ever stink here," Brian heard the second-in-command curse.

"It always does in these places," Deacon remarked. 

_These places,_ Brian noted from his hiding-place. _And I wonder whose fault that is._

"There's plenty of room, though, I'll give Bulsara that. There's room to expand. As soon as this nonsense with the would-be rebel scum is over, I want to get a new shipment of slaves in here. Give this place a make-over. We're going to make this into a profitable business."

"Yes, sir."

"The bunch of slaves that we have here is far too soft. Far too used to their own ways and to cutting corners, you know. That's dangerous. If we let that continue, they'll just start getting ideas. And we don't want that."

"What are you proposing to do, sir?"

"Well." The Deacon stopped to cough, for a moment. "We need to separate them. Make sure they're mixed with plenty of newcomers. We don't want any deep friendships, and no one should get too comfortable. That's what works. We're going to show them that the cushy days they had with the Bulsaras are long past."

"I'll put the word out that you're buying, sir."

"Yes. That's a good idea. But we need to be careful who we buy from. We don't want to end up with more trouble. A dependable seller. We're going to need all kinds of slaves, I think, so it should be a profitable venture. Should arouse some interest."

There was a pause. Brian held his breath, hoping that they had moved on. But no. It seemed that Master Deacon was only getting started.

"Oh, and by the way, while you're at it. I might want a couple of pretty blond youngsters among the slaves."

"I'll see to it, of course," the second-in-command said smoothly.

"I'm used to a certain… standard from my playthings. And the one I have now as my personal slave won't last long," Deacon said.

Brian slapped his hand over his mouth to prevent a shocked gasp from escaping. Personal slave! Were they talking about Roger? They had to be, didn't they?

"Of course, I haven't had the chance to really get into it, yet. Ride him properly, if you know what I mean."

Brian thought he heard a chuckle from the second-in-command. He felt sick to his stomach.

"But even so. He's still too independent, even now," Deacon continued. "Still thinks he can get away with things, even when he's learned that there's no escaping from getting on his knees and asking for it. Wouldn't put it past him to have pretentions to starting a rebellion, actually."

"Is that so, sir?"

There was a rustling noise. Deacon's voice sounded sharp. "I'll see to it that it doesn't happen, of course. But he might not be of much use after that. After I make sure."

This time Brian was certain: the second-in-command was laughing. Brian shoved the side of his hand into his mouth to hold quiet and not let his whimpers escape. 

"But yes, I'll break him if I must," Deacon said. "A pity, really. I'll get some fun out of him before I do, though. He's pretty. Looks very good on his knees. But at the end of the day, he's just a slave, just like the rest of them. There's plenty of them to be found. And breaking him will be easy. It always is. You see, everyone has a weakness. And a wise man finds out about them."

"Sir?"

"I'll tell you. It could be useful for you to know, too. "What I have found out is that my blond plaything has a soft spot for that lanky, curly-haired slave. You know the one?"

"Hmm," the second-in-command said thoughtfully. Brian bit into his hand, hard enough to taste blood. "I think so. Good with numbers? That the one? The one you had the papers made for?"

"Yes. That's him. But once I found that out, it was easy. It was simply a case of getting my hand around curly's neck, so to speak. Control him, and you control Roger as well. You see?"

"Yes, sir, I do. That's very clever of you," the second-in-command said. "So that's what the life bonding was all about."

"That's right. I was wondering, actually, if I should put curly in charge of finding a solution for the safe. That would give me a nice additional choke-hold over him in addition to the bond. But I should find an answer for the safe in Fairfield. There are experts, I'd just hoped to not need to advertise this situation."

"And the soldiers, sir? Will we be needing more of them, as well? Not just slaves?"

"Well, just as soon as we get that infernal safe open, we won't need to worry about the financial side of it anymore. So yes, you could look into that as well. Besides, I've already raised money with the contents of the safe as a security."

"I see, sir. Well, it will be worth all our efforts."

"But first there's the meeting. Shouldn't take long. It's just the one night. And you'll be in charge here. See to it that everything goes well. And we can leave this debacle behind us."

"That idiot of a majordomo. The nerve of him," the second-in-command said.

After that, it sounded as though the pair of them moved on, comfortable in the knowledge of their own position of power, congratulating themselves on their own cruelty and supposed cleverness. Shocked beyond words, Brian slid down onto the cellar floor, drawing his knees close to his chest, trying to make sense of what he had heard. 

_His name,_ Brian thought. Somehow that seemed like the worst part of it. _The majordomo had a name. But no one had used it. Did Deacon even know it? Had he even bothered to find out? It was as though the man didn't exist anymore._

He felt on the verge of tears, then, sitting there on the cold floor, rocking himself silently back and forth. He hadn't cried for a long, long time. Not since he was a child, not since he had been taken away from his mother. In that moment, he remembered her face, bloody all over as she tried to hold on to her son. He didn't know what had happened to her. He didn't know if she was still alive. His father, even less. He had thought he'd made his peace with it; thought that it was easier, even, not to know. But now, it seemed like when he closed his eyes, he could see their faces. All of their faces. An early memory of his mother, looking at him with tenderness. Roger, eyelids drooping with sleep, leaning on his shoulder; a memory from a couple of years ago. Even Freddie, looking at him defiantly from behind the bars of his cell. And most recently, Roger, with that terrible closed off, haunted look on his face. And finally, Roger with a faint smile on his lips as he drew back from their hasty kiss. 

_Plaything. Life bond. I'll break him._

Brian whimpered, inconsolable. It was impossible not to put two and two together, now. Not to understand just what Deacon had meant. What had been done to Roger, and what was going to happen to Brian himself. And – the cruellest thought of all – that Roger had chosen not to tell him. And – Brian suspected that he had done it to try to save him from pain. It was all too much. Brian cradled his head in his hands.

His life was sharply divided into the time before Roger, and after. He remembered seeing Roger for the first time. Remembered arriving at the estate. He had been miserable. The freezing rain of early spring had seeped through his thin clothes ages ago, and the cold metal of his hateful collar was chafing at the skin of his neck. The whole time, he had wanted to scream, to tear it off, but there was nothing he could do. The trek from Fairfield had been long and hard. He had shuffled through the downpour after the other slaves, having no idea of what to expect of his new masters. He was still numb with the impact of everything that happened.

His old master had died when he had just turned sixteen. His childhood and the love of his mother were just distant memories at that point. But still, Brian had managed somehow, despite everything. But when the master died, all the slaves that had been life bound were executed. Summarily, without any chance of negotiation, without the slightest concern for anyone's situation. Old men and women. A young mother with a small child; that still gave Brian nightmares from time to time. All of them, one by one, mindlessly, mercilessly killed.

All the violence. All the blood. The pain, and the faces of people broken, and pushed beyond their endurance. The careless disdain for human lives that the masters exhibited (except when it came to their own, of course), and the stark reality of the horror of slavery. Those who hadn't been killed were sold off; just another commodity, like the furniture. Just something that was bought and sold, and Brian was just one more piece of property. He wasn't sure that he had ever grasped that as deeply as he did then, as the horror of a collar snapped shut around his neck and it attached with a chain to others equally unfortunate as he was.

All things came to an end, however, and eventually even the misery of the march from Fairfield was over. Standing in front of the house for the first time, surreptitiously trying to catch a first glimpse of his new surroundings, he had suddenly caught sight of an apparition standing by a fence; he later learned that behind it was the herb garden. Despite the cold rain, the apparition's hair had gleamed golden. It held its head up high, chin at an angle he could only describe as defiant. 

Clearly it was just another slave. His simple clothes and the blue and black bruise along his cheekbone, visible even in the rain and from the other side of the yard, made that evident. But he looked like no slave Brian had seen before: something in his eyes burned with a fire that he had admired, then. It seemed unquenchable. It gave him hope. Through everything, he had never given up on it. But now? Roger had been his whole world for such a long time. And for almost all of that time, he had been so afraid for him. Never more so than now.

Brian took a deep breath. He took hold of the shelf he had been hiding behind, dragging himself up. His jaw clenched, he was more determined than ever to find that tunnel. To make a difference. To bring about an end to the endless, mindless cruelty and get Roger, at least, into safety.

* * *

In the early afternoon, Roger made his way to Master Deacon's chambers once again. He was dragging his heels a little, although given the time of day, it was unlikely that Deacon himself was going to be there. He had been told he was going to pack the Master's personal belongings, and it hardly seemed the sort of thing that would be accompanied by any more of Deacon's groping.

Stepping into the light and airy room, he was surprised to find Freddie there, as well, along with a couple of soldiers, seemingly all occupied with sorting through. There was a chest open in the middle of the floor, and garments strewn all over.

For some strange reason, the sight of Freddie sorting through shirts and vests, a small furrow between his eyebrows, made Roger feel a little lighter in his heart. They were really going to Fairfield, then. It had to be a good thing, the trip. Didn't it? It would mean getting away from the estate, at least, for a moment. Maybe there was some kind of hope, after all? Something he hadn't thought about? He knew, now, that escape for him was not possible. But maybe he'd come up with something in town, something that would help the others? That would help Brian?

Brian. He sighed. Gentle understanding Brian. It would be more than enough if he could get him to safety. But Roger wondered: had he realised what Brian's feelings were, before? He didn't know what, exactly, had made him decide to kiss him, except for a vague guess of how Brian would react. And Brian had seemed to like it. He had been surprised, but he had clung on like… like it mattered, somehow. Roger wasn't sure about how he should feel about that. It had been difficult to stay close, to let Brian be that close for so long, and not push him away. Some part of him still wanted to run away screaming, and never let anyone touch him, ever again. But he knew that was a luxury that wasn't allowed to him. 

He should have been able to distinguish between a touch from Brian and one from Master Deacon. It should have been clear as day. But it wasn't. And the gentle kiss that he had shared with Brian became, in his mind, inexorably linked to what had followed, when he had come to these same chambers to draw Deacon a bath. His sigh became a shudder as he remembered.

_Roger turned the tap, cutting off the flow of the water, frowning at the bathtub. He checked the water once more. Satisfied, he fetched a new bar of soap to sit on a dish on the edge of the tub. He made sure that there was a bath sponge nearby._

_And then Deacon came in. He was untying his robe as he walked, leaving the door to the bathroom open. Uncaring of who saw, unheeding of who knew. In fact, it seemed as though he was taking particular pleasure in Roger's discomfort at his nakedness._

_"Ah, good," he said, lowering himself in the steaming water with a sigh. Roger tried to back out of the room quietly, but Deacon was having none of it. He motioned Roger closer with an impatient gesture._

_"I'll have nothing but obedience from you tonight, slave."_

_Deacon drew Roger close to him, his wet hand grabbing hold of the collar of Roger's shirt. The grip was uncomfortably tight, and Roger shivered in disgust, feeling the man's hot breath land on his cheek as he leaned close to his ear._

_"I know exactly what I'm going to do to you," Deacon whispered. "You're going to look so pretty doing it. And then you'll get to tell me how much you liked it. I might even have you plead for some more. We'll see."_

_By then, there was a large damp area on the shoulder of Roger's shirt where Deacon had grabbed him. But Roger's rescue came from an unexpected direction._

_"Master Deacon?" A soldier called, from the doorway to the master bedroom. "I bring word from the doctor, sir. He's ready to see you now."_

_"Right now? Deacon snarled. "Tell him to wait. I'm busy."_

_"I'm afraid he's quite insistent, sir. He told me not to come back until I bring you with me. Something about a check-up that he absolutely must perform before you leave for Fairfield?"_

_Deacon held Roger close a moment more, and then he suddenly released his hold. Roger retreated towards the wall as fast as he could, his breathing quick and shallow. It felt like the collar had left an imprint on his skin._

_"We're not done here yet," Deacon told him. "I will see you later. Give me my robe, boy."_

_Casting his eyes down and hating himself for it, Roger handed Deacon his sumptuously decorated, soft bathrobe. Probably, Roger thought, as a good little slave he should have gone and helped his master up, but he was damned if he was going to volunteer his services._

_The soldier was more polite, coming forward to meet Master Deacon at the bathroom door. He took hold of Deacon's elbow and bent over him in concern._

_"Aah!" the enraged cry took Roger completely by surprise._

_"I'm ever so sorry, sir," the soldier said. "I did not realise – that must have been your wound. I'm deeply sorry –"_

_"Get away from me, you fool," Deacon said, shoving the soldier viciously and folding his other arm across his stomach. As he hobbled out, Roger lifted his gaze cautiously, catching the eyes of the soldier. He winked at him, and then they were gone._

_Roger stood and looked after them for a long while. He was deeply grateful (and he wished fervently that the soldier's aim had been true), but he couldn't help reflecting that if a slave had tried the same, he would have either been flogged, or imprisoned._

_And he hoped that the soldier wouldn't expect anything from him in return._

Miraculously, Deacon hadn't called for him again that night. Roger had been spared for a little longer. But recalling what had almost happened still made his skin crawl the next day.

"Well, finally," a voice from in front of him said, shaking Roger out of his musings. "Where have you been? Get to work, slave," a soldier said. With some relief, Roger noted that it was someone else completely than last night. One problem less to deal with right now, at least.

Roger moved into the room, and followed the soldier's orders. She was pointing at Freddie with the hilt of her knife.

"You'll do the master's things first. Then the young master's. Hurry up. And both of you, see to it that they have formal robes with them. And that everything will reflect their station."

Freddie made room for him by the chest easily enough, and they sorted clothes in silence for a while. But the third time Freddie snatched a piece of clothing right out of his hands, Roger snapped.

"What's your problem, exactly?" He hissed, looking round to make sure they weren't overheard.

"You're doing this all wrong!" Freddie's whisper was indignant. "You need to fold it properly! Do you think I want to be doing this any more than you do?" 

"I didn't say that," Roger muttered, sullenly.

"But it's not worth it to do a sloppy job and get a beating for your trouble!"

"What do you think you know about it?" Roger said, narrowing his eyes.

Freddie paused in his work, deliberately pushing the offending garment towards Roger. 

"I don't, of course," he said evenly. "I know nothing about what your life has been like. Or anyone else's. But right now and right here, if this is anything to go by, we're going to be stuck with each other for the duration of this trip. And frankly, I know more about packing clothes than you do. So it might make sense to, I don't know, work together. But if you really want to keep squabbling all through it, we can do that, too."

The soldier cleared her throat behind them. "Less talk, you two," she said. "It's taken you long enough as it is."

Freddie broke their eye contact, muttering something vaguely apologetic. He took hold of a green and golden sash, rolling it neatly up and depositing it in a handy nook of the chest.

"I'll just gather the – the hair things up," Roger said, as a sort of a peace offering.

Freddie sniffed, but said nothing.

And Roger was left pondering the other's words. Working together. With a master's son? What would that mean? Before this, he wouldn't even have stopped to consider it. But now? He wasn't sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any thoughts? Questions?
> 
> And over to one of the others!


End file.
